"The Emperor of Mankind from the Imperium Caelestis... what is the meaning of this? We never provoked you—so why attack us so mercilessly?!"
The expedition fleets of Speyer, Wallfield, and Alexis Stukov had launched a sudden, brutal assault on the Tuskborn Federation, decimating and occupying their colonies without warning. But instead of answering violence with violence, the first thought of Durmoth—the High Commander of the Tuskborn—was to seek peace.
"Your Majesty the Emperor," Durmoth said in a diplomatic broadcast transmitted across the entire Imperium Caelestis fleet, "I implore you to sit down with us at the negotiation table. There is no need for meaningless bloodshed. What good is war when peace is still an option?"
Then the screen flickered, and Kenthelion appeared—his face cold, regal, and burning with restrained fury.
"You aliens still don't get it, do you?" His voice thundered, reverberating through the communication channel. "In the human lexicon, there is no space for negotiation. The wrath of the Imperium will burn everything—from the Solar System to the edge of the galaxy. Your kin will decorate the path of our victory. Your screams will be the anthem to our sacred military parade. Your panic? A prayer—fuel for humanity's glory. You aren't even worthy of being called enemies. You're nothing but an infestation we haven't gotten around to exterminating. Your bodies will feed our people. You think you can stand against humanity? Your stench alone pollutes the very fabric of the universe."
Behind Kenthelion, a terrifying psionic aura flared to life, radiating waves of destruction so intense, it could be felt across the void by the entire fleet.
"Humans! Don't expect us to thank you!" Durmoth barked back, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and fear. "Keep this up, and the whole galactic armada will rise together to crush you! Humanity will be annihilated!"
Kenthelion raised an eyebrow, then gave a cold, cruel smile.
"I'll give you one last word…" he said softly, voice dripping with menace.
"I'll turn your goddamn civilization into a fucking footnote in history."
The channel cut immediately. Kenthelion didn't even deem the aliens worthy of another second of his time.
"If you wish to die, then do it with honor—beneath the barrels of our guns. But if you refuse… then rot like vermin in a filthy hole. All xenos deserve death."
"How much longer until those three reach the alien colonies?" Kenthelion asked one of his commanders.
"Reporting in, Your Majesty! They're still ten days away—approximately 240 terra-hours."
"Have them accelerate. It's about time these bastards were treated properly."
In the silence that followed, Kenthelion sifted through every piece of intel—gathered from prisoners' mouths and the ruins of civilizations he had already crushed. Slowly, the bigger picture of the universe began to take shape in his mind.
Three main rings.
Beyond them? Nothing but darkness—wild, nameless galaxies. Every expedition sent into those voids had vanished without a trace—no signals, no signs, only death.
That's where they are, Kenthelion mused. Where the real monsters rip each other apart. This universe... it's far too quiet. Every alien he'd encountered so far had been nothing more than mindless beasts. He even began to suspect this galaxy wasn't meant for life at all—but a cosmic zoo. A playground for something far beyond.
"Where are they?" he muttered to himself. "Where are the real bastards hiding?"
A list of names scrolled through his mind:
Necrons. Zerg. Tyranids. The Covenant. Protoss...
The Chaos Gods: Khorne the Butcher, Tzeentch the Deceiver, Nurgle the Rotfather, and Slaanesh—the cosmic whore.
Reapers. Collectors. The Flood. Xenomorphs. Turians. Protheans. Thorian Creepers. Saren...
The list felt endless. What he once thought were nothing more than science fiction stories from his old life… now looked more like foreshadowing.
How did he know? Because Kenthelion had read the data archives of a civilization he'd obliterated. One report had mentioned foreign entities—beings from beyond this universe—who occasionally broke through the three rings. Unknown, undocumented things.
Seeing piles of alien corpses slaughtered by other aliens within those three rings—sometimes used as raw materials for grotesque experiments—Kenthelion could only let out a bitter chuckle.
"At first, I thought this was just Warhammer meets StarCraft," Kenthelion mused. "But if the edge of one galaxy can collide with the edge of another… then it's more like Dragon Ball Super. Thirteen universes crashing into each other without rules."
This wasn't just outer space. This was the galactic dark forest. The real playground of bastards.
Kenthelion even thought that if he ever met Zeno and the Grand Priest, he wouldn't be surprised. He might actually invite them for tea.
Back in his old life, people used to argue endlessly on forums: who was stronger — the Chaos Gods of Warhammer, or the deities of Dragon Ball? There was never a clear answer. Some believed the Grand Priest couldn't even scratch Khorne. Others claimed Zeno could erase everything with a snap of his fingers.
But now, none of that mattered.
"Forget forum theories," Kenthelion muttered. "I've still got savage aliens in the three main rings to deal with."
---
Galactic Structure and Power Distribution:
There are three primary rings in the galaxy:
The Inner Ring — This region houses the core destructive forces of the Human Federation. They've inherited most of the advanced technologies from the Federation itself. Prisoners from the Outer Ring have little to no clue just how much power is concentrated here.
The Middle Ring — The most chaotic and diverse zone, filled with renegade alien fleets that defected from humanity and now rule as minor kings. It's also home to various civilizations that either support Inner Ring powers or have managed to force their way in from the Outer Ring through sheer strength. "Occasionally chaotic" is perhaps the best way to describe this space.
The Outer Ring — A galactic scrapheap. Civilizations here survive off the leftovers of the galaxy. Even the weakest faction from the Middle Ring could easily dominate this region. Case in point: the current target, the Tuskborn Federation, controls hundreds of galaxies in this zone.
---
On Fleet Power and Military Might:
Warships from civilizations in the Outer Ring are often referred to as Titans — each over a kilometer long. Yet the Imperium Caelestis possesses thousands, if not millions, of such vessels. Imagine the terror if their full armada descended upon this universe.
The smallest warship in the Imperium Caelestis is the Battlecruiser, measuring around 1.2 kilometers in length. These ships are armed to the teeth with devastating weapons and weapons of mass destruction, capable of turning the tide of war in an instant. Their power alone is enough to haunt civilizations in the Outer and Middle Rings.
And yet, no one has ever seen the full force of the Inner Ring's armada. Not even a single common ship has been detected. For many civilizations, even catching sight of a mere transport vessel from the Inner Ring is enough to trigger widespread panic. That's how overwhelming their presence is.
---
Aboard one of the massive warships of the Speyer, Wallfield, and Alexis Stukov Expeditionary Fleet—a colossal iron fortress sailing through interstellar void—a lone officer stood atop a raised metal podium. He wore the crimson-and-black uniform of a Commissar, styled in grim reverence to Warhammer 40K.
His expression was ice-cold, his eyes as sharp as a drawn bayonet. Below him, rows upon rows of fresh troops stood in perfect formation. These were no ordinary soldiers. They were remnants and refugees from countless worlds and timelines—evacuees from The Wandering Earth, former paratroopers from the Umbrella Corporation, even reclaimed military survivors from the Resident Evil universe—all now reconditioned and indoctrinated into the ranks of the Imperium Caelestis.
"ATTENTION, ALL UNITS!" the Commissar's voice thundered through the steel-forged training hall. "Your next target is a resource planet belonging to the Durmoth species! Minimal military defense—but thousands of civilian colonies! They include ranchers, miners, scientists, even children! And you know what to do!"
One rookie, his face still betraying traces of an old-world conscience, raised a hand and stammered out, "S-Sir! I believe we should follow interstellar military law and international civilian protection protocols!"
Silence.
Then—
"DID YOU JUST MENTION MILITARY LAW?!"
The Commissioner's shout exploded like a plasma blast. He stepped down, closing in on the soldier, his eyes gleaming with fanatic fury.
"Purge that rotten 21st-century ideology from your mind! You are now part of the Imperium Caelestis! Here, there's no negotiation with aliens, no mercy! The only two things you protect are your weapons... and your vital organs. The rest? Burn it. Destroy it. Devour it. Every non-human creature is an infestation that must be eradicated to the root."
He raised his hand high, clenching his fist.
"Executing prisoners of war? Authorized. Interrogation torture? Permitted. Wiping out alien civilian colonies? Ordered. If you see anything inhuman—destroy it without hesitation. That is all I ask."
The soldiers fell silent, then shouted in unison, "UNDERSTOOD, SIR!"
"Good!" the Commissioner replied. "Now move out! Soldiers! Show the entire galaxy that humanity is an unstoppable ruling species!"
---
Landing crafts broke through the atmosphere of the alien colony Durmoth one by one. Without warning, they rained incendiary missiles and orbital fire upon the civilian settlements. The Durmoth natives—tall, slender humanoids with trunk-like noses, clad in work gear and mining tools—scattered in confusion, unable to comprehend the sudden assault.
But the human troops gave no time to think. They surged forward, shooting, burning, and looting mercilessly. Colony after colony was razed, and the screams of the alien creatures were nothing but background music to the taste of victory.
At the forefront, the Commissioner led once more.
"ATTENTION! LEGION CONCORDIA TERRA—together with the armored divisions, seize and secure all major mining sites! Prioritize blue uranium processing plants and exotic materials!"
"Penal Legions—you're at the front! Want to atone for your sins? Prove your loyalty in the hottest hell of all!"
War criminals, dimensional rebels, and former crime lords from Wandering Earth, Umbrella, and other universes—all declared "useful only as bait"—were sent to the frontlines. Living cannon fodder.
---
Soon after, two main waves of assault formed. Lehman Russ tanks and Chimera infantry carriers of the Imperium led the charge, followed by an array of vehicles and infantry from across the multiverse: Goliaths and Marauders from StarCraft, MTTs from Star Wars, Mako tanks from Mass Effect, Scorpions from Halo, and automated walkers from Stellaris—all stomping forward, pushing down alien defenses at every colony.
But the Durmoth planets were rigged with plasma mines and energy traps. Reports began flooding in from all fronts.
"Delta-7 colony under attack!"
"Kharval logistics base destroyed!"
"Why… why are they doing this?" a whispered question.
There was no time for answers.
The war had begun.
---
"We're under attack by humans! Repeat! Humans are attacking!"
Panic waves echoed across Durmoth colonies through a crumbling strategic comm network. Behind flickering holographic screens, muscular humanoids with long trunks and broad ears roared in their language—a mix of clicks and high-pitched hisses.
"Local security forces… wiped out! We can't provide effective support! All our colonies are in chaos!"
One Durmoth commander at the communications hub shouted in frustration, only to be met with silence. Before a follow-up transmission could be sent, his body and the control room were obliterated in a thunderous blast—an orbital strike signaling the beginning of total annihilation.
---
Meanwhile, the Tuskborn Federation headquarters remained blind. No satellites returned. No reconnaissance drones survived. The war had erupted from an unexpected direction—the calm before the storm had shattered into a raging tempest scorching the entire sector.
From all corners of the Outer Rim:
Jim Raynor deployed his Hyperion-class battlecruisers to seize supply routes.
Castellan Creed ordered Astra Militarum to establish forward bastions amid the ruins of alien colonies.
Admiral Yularen of the Galactic Republic activated galaxy-wide emergency protocols.
Kylo Ren… struck without a word. The Knights of Ren fleet slaughtered Durmoth colonies as a 'gift' to the human Emperor, burning an entire system simply because it "looked alien."
---
On one of the outer planets of the Tuskborn Federation—now engulfed in the flames of war:
"DAMN HUMANS!!!"
A Durmoth general slammed his fist onto the metal war table, shattering it into pieces. His fangs bared, eyes burning crimson with fury. But there was nothing he could do. Like dozens of other commanders across the stars, he had received no intelligence—because their intelligence network no longer existed.
Once, they believed humanity was a threat that could be negotiated with. After the fall of GloryPork, Urg'nok, and Solarhelm, they assumed humanity would stop—satisfied with their victories.
They were wrong.
So very wrong.
---
Less than ten days after the Human Emperor rejected the Durmoth Prime Minister's peace offering, hundreds of thousands of human warships emerged from slipspace.
No warnings. No declarations.
Just fire and death—cleansing star system after star system.
Small civilization, great empire—it made no difference. If you weren't human, you were the enemy.
And enemies must be annihilated.
---
"Planetary communications are down, Commander!"
"All satellites destroyed, relay hubs obliterated!"
The Durmoth general stood still. His breath heavy, eyes locked onto the dark screen now showing nothing but electromagnetic distortion.
"It's over," he muttered.
"It's completely over."
He knew exactly… what happened to aliens captured by humans.
If they were lucky—they'd be skinned after death.
If not… they'd be skinned alive.
And the unluckiest of all?
They'd be turned into livestock.
If their species was deemed nutritious, humans would genetically modify them, erase their consciousness, and breed them like galactic cattle.
Humanity had tens of thousands of methods to torment aliens—some worse than death itself.
"Sir!!! The city's defense line has been breached!"
A blood-soaked Durmoth soldier burst into the command chamber, breath ragged, voice nearly drowned out by the roar of battle in the distance.
Outside, along the city's perimeter, Astra Militarum long-range units had deployed Deathstrike missile launchers and Siege Tanks to rain down merciless bombardment on alien defenses.
Solid-fueled intercontinental ballistic missiles launched from the Deathstrike platforms, slicing through the sky—carrying death in utter silence. When those tactical nuclear warheads detonated, a thermonuclear fireball several hundred meters wide bloomed, consuming everything within its radius—buildings, armored units, entire battalions. Even the atmosphere shuddered beneath the shockwave.
One missile alone was enough to erase an entire defense grid.
That explosion marked the signal for absolute annihilation.
The remaining Siege Tanks opened fire without pause, bombarding the shattered ruins of the city to ensure not even the faintest chance of survival remained.
Before the Durmoth citizens could even process the horror raining down upon them, a Knight Titan—an adamantium-clad colossus of war—emerged from the thick battlefield fog.
Behind it, ranks of Zaku II Mobile Suits and RGM-79 GMs followed, unleashing a storm of bullets and explosions upon the alien city below.
At the feet of those towering war machines, hundreds of thousands of Penal Legion soldiers surged across the battlefield—not out of courage, but sheer desperation.
To retreat was to be shot dead by their own snipers.
To stop was to be trampled under the steel feet of the advancing Mobile Suits.
Their only path to survival lay forward—atonement paid in blood.
Some of them—if they lived long enough—would one day tell the tale of their redemption. That they fought and earned their freedom under the Imperium Caelestis.
A story that would echo across the conquered stars for generations.
The patrol-class Knight Titan finally opened fire.
"For the Emperor!!!"
Its Melta Cannon discharged in a blinding burst, obliterating a skyscraper in a single molten blast.
A volley of bazooka fire followed from the Mobile Suits behind, hammering the alien city from above.
The Durmoth scattered in chaos—but none escaped the storm of bullets and plasma raining down from every direction.
The Titan's heavy arm-mounted autocannon shredded alien bodies into nothing but a crimson mist.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot—a noble warrior from a proud Knight family—shouted with manic glee each time a Durmoth was torn to pieces by his firepower.
To slaughter aliens was not merely duty.
It was honor.
A legacy passed down from generation to generation—among the bloodlines of the Knight Titans.
"Begin! Let the Emperor's wrath burn the universe to ash!"
The Titan units moved in brutal harmony. They were symbols of planetary annihilation. If Gundams were fighter jets in humanoid form, then Titans were walking cataclysms—their steps shook the earth, their weapons ripped through sky and soil alike.
From behind the fog and beneath the titanic feet of metal giants, hundreds of thousands of Penal Legion soldiers surged onto the battlefield. They stormed into the alien city of Durmoth like a tide of death without mercy. Their eyes burned with madness, rifles dancing in their hands with ruthless precision.
They shot every alien in sight—regardless of age, gender, or rank. From infants to elders, no one was spared. On this battlefield, mercy was treason against the Imperium Caelestis.
"For the Emperor! For freedom!" shouted a tattooed man charging at the front of the horde.
His name was Heriberto Lazcano—once a cartel boss on a world conquered by the Imperium. After being captured and dragged to the altar of purification, he—like thousands of other criminals—was given a single choice: die in fire... or live in war.
Now, he was just one of the many killing machines of the Penal Legion. His body was covered in tattoos and torture scars, but there was no will left inside him. Only obedience. Only blood.
He laughed as bullets rained down upon the alien crowd. No one escaped. Every step he took was an extension of the Emperor's will.
Retreat meant execution. Hesitation meant being trampled by Mobile Suits. To live meant to slaughter.