Inside the Gloriana-class warship, the atmosphere was tense. Dim lights cast a faint glow over the main bridge, where Kenthelion sat majestically upon the High Command Throne. His sharp eyes scrutinized the reports delivered by his officers.
"Your Majesty, the majority of Solarhelm Empire personnel have been captured and are currently awaiting your orders," said an officer in a firm voice.
Beside him, Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed sat calmly in the Captain's Chair, commanding operations with unwavering authority.
Kenthelion's voice rose, filled with authority. "According to data from the GloryPork race, how many beings managed to escape the hunt on Solarhelm's aliens?"
An elderly bishop standing next to the throne spoke softly but clearly, "Trillions of Solarhelm species have been captured, Your Majesty. However, there have been requests from several systems scattered throughout the universe for the prisoners to be treated specially."
The bishop paused briefly, bowing his head slightly, as if fearing his next words might cause trouble.
Kenthelion fixed him with a cold, harsh gaze. "There are no prisoners in the Imperium Caelestis."
He slowly rose, then issued his command without hesitation. "Order the Adeptus Mechanicus to erase all neurons from those creatures. Afterwards, have the Imperium Caelestis scientists breed them as livestock. These creatures... their taste is exquisite."
Upon hearing Kenthelion's command, the Archbishop's eyes lit up with reverence. His gaze shimmered with both admiration and unwavering loyalty. Deep down, he knew—there was no one more worthy to sit upon the High Throne than Kenthelion, Emperor of Mankind. And yet, behind that admiration, he also perceived a vast untapped opportunity.
"However, Your Majesty…" he began respectfully, his tone calm but brimming with enthusiasm. "Wouldn't it be wasteful to simply exterminate these creatures or preserve them as canned rations? Their bodies possess natural regenerative capabilities. It would be far more efficient to harvest their primary organs, consume them, and then allow them to heal for reuse in future cycles."
His voice shifted, now laced with a cold, clinical logic. "Rather than ending their lives, it would be wiser to fully optimize their biological potential. Even their bodily waste can be processed into fertilizer—to restore the soil on barren planets."
Kenthelion did not respond immediately. His gaze fixed on the tactical holo-display that projected the boundaries of the Imperium Caelestis. Then, with a deliberate and commanding stride, he descended from the throne.
The Archbishop continued his report. "We have selected the Zul'kar system as the initial site, Your Majesty. The Adeptus Mechanicus have begun constructing distribution hubs and breeding facilities for the Solarhelm species."
Kenthelion frowned. His voice came out deep, firm, and edged with dissatisfaction.
"That's not enough."
He swept his gaze across the room. "Think bigger. Not just Solarhelm or GloryPork—every species we conquer must be integrated into this system."
His voice thundered through the command bridge like a divine decree shaping destiny.
"We will build livestock farms on a scale never before witnessed in the history of the galaxy. Monuments of dominion. Symbols of Imperium supremacy."
He pointed toward the galactic map hovering above the holo-display.
"I hereby designate the Zerathis Expanse as our primary hub. It is vast, hidden from enemy scanners, and ideal for the construction of a colossal farming sector. From there, we will supply the entire Imperium Caelestis with its primary food source."
The officers, bishops, and scientists could only bow their heads in solemn silence—realizing they had just witnessed the birth of a new economic order. A regenerative alien meat industry that would feed the greatest empire humanity had ever known.
-------
Kenthelion established the forward base of the Expeditionary Forces on Planet Concordia IX—a former Orc world now purged of xeno filth. A colossal Gothic basilica towered from the earth, serving as both the strategic headquarters of the Expeditionary Forces and the imperial palace of the Emperor of the Imperium Caelestis.
In the central command chamber, Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed stood tall as the Supreme Commander of the Expeditionary Forces. Reports poured in from officers stationed across the galaxy. Gathered around the Strategic Command Console were generals and admirals from various sectors—General Jim Raynor, Admiral Speyer, Admiral Yularen, General Wallfield, General Alexis Stukov, and even Kylo Ren. The blue glow of the tactical holomap lit their faces as battlefield data flickered across the frontlines.
> "According to our investigation," one officer reported, "a GloryPork general and several hundred of his troops escaped during the chaos. They're currently being tracked."
> "We've also received intel that they're attempting to regroup the remaining GloryPork population for a mass liberation effort."
Creed's gaze lingered on the tactical map. He spoke calmly, yet with iron authority:
> "Ignore them for now. Our priority is stabilizing the region and continuing the expedition."
He understood those stragglers were nothing more than remnants of a shattered force. His true duty lay in consolidating the Imperium's gains and neutralizing future threats before they could take root.
Members of the Inquisition and the Adepta Sororitas had already been deployed to "welcome" the remaining xenos—with the usual love and care the Imperium Caelestis offered to alien species: purification, evaluation, and… recycling.
> "Our next target: Planet Mognoth in the Aurora Cluster galaxy. Exterminate all Orc species of the Brok'Mor Empire within the outer rim. Any destabilizing factor must be eradicated."
The generals exchanged glances and nodded. The strategy meeting resumed at once—swift, firm, and efficient. The priorities were clear: orbital dominance, the destruction of enemy infrastructure, and absolute control over the local biosphere. There was no room for compromise. In the Imperium Caelestis, there were only two choices: conquest… or annihilation.
Suddenly, the main doors of the command chamber slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. An officer in full Imperial Caelestis uniform marched in with purpose. His face was tense, carrying an air of urgency that immediately silenced the surrounding discussions.
> "Supreme Commander," he said with a sharp salute. "We've received a transmission from the remnants of human forces still alive in this universe. They... are requesting to speak with you directly."
A moment of silence followed. All eyes turned to Creed.
The Castellan slowly shifted his gaze toward the officer. His expression remained calm—unchanged—but a faint flicker of interest appeared in his eyes.
> "Patch the transmission through to the main channel," he said at last. "Let's hear… what they have to say."
> "Understood, Supreme Commander!"
As soon as the Castellan finished speaking, the main holographic display above the Strategic Command Console flickered to life with a deep hum. The digital static haze gradually cleared, revealing a human figure with a face wrapped in bandages and marked by obvious battle wounds.
The man on the screen looked directly at the Castellan with eyes full of fire and determination.
> "Hmmm… to keep it brief, how are things?"
The Castellan and the generals exchanged glances before focusing on the man speaking.
> "I'm Marcus Caldwell, leader of the guerrilla forces," the man's voice was heavy but resolute. "We are the Human Liberation Front (HLF). Our federation was shattered five years ago in a brutal Orc assault. We are the only survivors. All our comrades have been enslaved by the Orcs."
The Castellan furrowed his brow.
> "Then why are you contacting us now?"
Marcus let out a long sigh.
> "We're trapped under siege by the remaining Orc forces from the Brok'Mor Empire. Our warships are cornered on the outskirts of the Oblivion Arm star system. We're surrounded and in desperate need of assistance. We're pleading for support from the Imperium Caelestis."
The Castellan nodded slowly.
> "Understood. I will report this to the Emperor immediately. Hold your position for now; reinforcements will be dispatched soon."
With that, the Castellan ended the transmission decisively.
> "Which fleet is closest to their location?"
An officer promptly responded.
> "Second Fleet, Commander. They're currently occupying a mineral-rich planet in that sector."
The Castellan turned to Jim Raynor, standing nearby.
> "You heard that, Raynor? Your fleet is closest. Use the mass relay to reach them quickly. Take your flagship, the Hyperion."
Jim Raynor smirked, raising an eyebrow with confidence.
> "Heh, got it, boss. I'll pay them a visit. Let those Orc bastards know our turf isn't a playground."
Elsewhere, Kenthelion, upon receiving the report, gave full approval for the operation. Once he learned that the remaining Orc forces were led personally by Brok'Mer of the Brok'Mor Empire, his resolve only hardened.
------
"Leader Marcus Caldwell, will the Imperium Caelestis really come?"
A soldier with bandaged hands gripped his rifle tightly, his voice trembling between hope and fear.
"I don't know for sure. He only said he'd consult the Emperor and told us to hold our ground and wait."
"So what are we supposed to do? Our fleeing fleet is filled with millions of women and children—their lives depend on us."
"Nearly half our forces have already fallen just to give them a chance to survive."
"Gather all the warships still capable of fighting. We'll make a last stand against the Orc forces. The rest—get the women and children as far away as possible."
"I believe they'll come. The Imperium Caelestis won't leave us alone in this darkness."
As the guerrilla leader, Marcus Caldwell held onto that lone spark of hope. Rumors of the human Emperor from the Imperium Caelestis—someone who loved humanity fiercely—were like a beacon shining in the oppressive gloom.
---
Inside a refugee warship cabin, quiet whispers and soft cries filled the air. An old man sat surrounded by children who looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Old legends say... that one day, a hero will appear—one who brings his angels—to save humanity when they stand on the brink of destruction."
A little child stared, eyes widening.
> "Who is that hero? What's his name?"
The old man smiled faintly, as if recalling memories from a distant past.
> "He has no certain name. He's been here since the first humans set foot on this earth. For over 30,000 years, he's hidden in the shadows—sometimes a philosopher, sometimes a king, a scientist, or an unknown inventor. He's the protector of mankind you'll never read about in official history."
> "He planted wisdom and progress, guiding humans out of the darkness. Maybe you know him as Gilgamesh, Socrates, Buddha, or Leonardo da Vinci. Or maybe he never appeared in any book at all."
The children exchanged glances, imagining the hero as a figure from fairy tales.
> "When humanity faces the apocalypse, he will rise with dazzling golden armor and a sword shining like the sun. He leads his armies, blazing a path through the darkness, uniting mankind with fire, steel, and iron will."
> "He destroys tyrants, drives away aliens, and founds the Imperium of Man—the greatest empire ever known."
One child hugged his knees, eyes moist, staring out the window.
> "Will he come to save us too?"
The old man looked at them one by one and nodded slowly.
> "Of course, my children. That Hero will come. He's never truly gone—just waiting for the right time to return."
But as those words escaped his lips, the old man closed his eyes briefly and swallowed a bitter gulp.
> Deep down, he knew it was just a hopeful lie.
No one truly knew if that hero was real.
Yet, amid the Orc siege's darkness, even a lie could be the only light to brighten the souls of small children on the edge of despair.
----
As Marcus Caldwell led the last remaining battle-ready warship—the final shield between the Orc forces and the refugee ships filled with women and children—
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
The ship's hull shuddered violently under a relentless barrage of cannon fire from the Orc vessels.
"They're breaching the cargo hold!"
A bloodied soldier staggered out from the rear corridor, his breath ragged and grip tight on his rifle. He shouted into his comms—but before he could finish, a massive Orc blade plunged through his back.
"WAAARRRGGGHHH!!!"
Blood sprayed as hundreds of Orcs poured through the blasted cargo doors. The remaining human soldiers scrambled to form a defensive line, closing off access and preparing for brutal close-quarters combat in the cramped corridors.
"The cargo hold is lost!"
"BRRAAAAT! BRAK-BRAK! PTOK! TSSSH! BRRAAAAT! DANG-DANG! KRAK! TSSHHH!"
Bullets rained down on the invading Orcs, but their thick hides soaked up most of the damage. In such tight quarters, the Orcs' sheer physical strength was a nightmare for the defenders. Many fell, but none retreated.
"The enemy has taken the mess hall! But… the restrooms still hold!"
The remaining soldiers took cover inside the cramped restroom stalls, each clutching powerful explosives—ready to sacrifice themselves. After a last call to their families or a quick prayer, they detonated the charges.
"BOOOOOM!!!"
A massive explosion tore through the mess hall walls, sucking dozens of Orcs out into the vacuum of space. A few soldiers held on long enough to reseal the hatch, their bodies burnt and broken.
But the wave of Orcs showed no sign of stopping. Grots—small, repulsive creatures—crawled through every crack and crevice, screaming and laughing like demons.
"I can't hold out any longer! I'm going to blow the reactor! If I'm going down, I won't let these Orc bastards defile my body!"
The last wall was about to crumble. Outside, the soldiers readied themselves for an honorable end. Many silently prayed—not just to God, but to any force that might save them: angels, demons, or legends.
Then, suddenly…
Light.
The warship Hyperion burst through the warp gate, majestic and thunderous. Its escort fleet formed up behind it, plasma cannons blazing, ready to strike.
On the command bridge, General Jim Raynor stood tall, eyes locked on the battle-worn human ship nearly lost to the Orcs.
With fierce determination, he ordered, "Jump in, squad! Let's go!"
Three Space Marines from the Ultramarine Legion suddenly appeared from the drop pods, stepping into the fray with commanding presence. Their deep blue power armor gleamed beneath the blazing gunfire. Bolters and chainswords primed to tear through the invading Orc hordes.
The brutal close-quarters fight erupted anew. With flawless coordination, the Space Marines tore through enemy lines, their devastating power unmatched.
An enormous Orc with double horns charged at a Space Marine, roaring in rage. But with lightning reflexes, the Marine's chainsword cleaved through, decapitating the beast in one clean strike.