Vmmm—
Temporary war room.
A star map tens of meters long glimmered in midair, dense with points of light that each marked a world.
It showed the Vostonia panstellar region and its surrounding reaches.
Floating around the map were more than twenty half-body holo-portraits.
These were the New Imperium's key figures.
Among them: Kaise, Supreme Commander of the Redeemer Expedition Fleet; Arye, overall commander of the Tempest Army Group; Popov, chief of Logistics; Pru, deputy commander of the Redemption Legion; Duke, and others.
In addition were representatives from the Ministry of the Interior and the Adeptus Mechanicus.
They were the advance staff for this apocalyptic-scale war: responsible for pre-invasion analysis, planning, and coordination—soon to rope in even more parties.
The war's codename—War of the Bastion. Full title: the First Vostonia Defense War.
A brutal undertaking.
Its aim: encircle the whole Vostonia region, halt Chaos expansion, annihilate every Chaos force, and cleanse every world under corruption—
Ultimately to dismantle the sorcerous array spanning multiple sub-sectors and recover the Old One artifact.
"By the Emperor…"
Faces around the table hardened; more than one attendee couldn't help but gasp.
They understood what this War of the Bastion meant: the very future of Imperial prosperity hung in the balance.
And the Primarch of Hope—the Savior, now Emperor—had ordered total war: every lever the Imperium could pull was to be thrown into this fight.
Until mankind saw final victory.
Everyone knew what that implied. Any misstep—any defeat—could hurl the Imperium into the abyss.
"Hiss… this is going to be rough."
Eden stared at the star map, brows knitting.
He felt the weight of it.
The Vostonia region was far larger than expected—roughly three hundred civilized worlds, a grand arena of one thousand two hundred–plus stellar bodies.
By area and planetary count, it even outstripped Ultramar's famed Five Hundred Worlds—if far less prosperous.
But it was still a core industrial zone of the Imperium.
To encircle a theater of this scale and then prosecute mass planetary landings—how hard would that be?
This might be, to date, the largest war the Savior had ever fought—and against the Chaos Four's unleashed power across the galaxy.
Worse, it was a naked trap. Failure would be unthinkable.
"Your Majesty the Savior.
"Based on current tallies, the Redeemer Expedition Fleet can at most cordon off one fifth of the theater. We need five times our present strength to effect a full encirclement."
Secretary-General Tarko of the Savior's Chancery spoke as he sifted data in parallel, feeding Eden the essentials—
So His Majesty could decide.
Eden eyed the key worlds tagged across the Vostonia map and asked, "Can the Imperium spare that many troops?"
He would not gut the home front to the point of collapse. That would trigger a wider disaster.
"No problem. We will draw primarily from worlds along Webway lanes. Neighboring regions will retain garrison reserves.
"With the Webway, they can mutually support one another against likely Chaos crises."
"In that case, pull what we can without courting disaster. The more, the better. Quantities and particulars—have the Departmento Militarum set it."
Eden hesitated, then gave the order.
The enemy came on like a tidal bore; he needed numbers, or he would lose this war where mankind's fate was on the line.
To him, this was a war no less critical than the Horus Heresy.
And though it read as a "defense," it would in truth be aggressively offensive: Imperial forces would punch into Chaos's prepared lines and shatter the sorcerous array.
All of it compressed into one region—combat intensity off the charts.
A Chaos-facing "birthday bash" delivered by the Imperium.
More troubling still, the war had to end quickly. A slog would bleed resources—and increase the odds of defeat.
Scanning Logistics' figures, Eden added a reminder: "Our logistics can keep pace, yes? Tell Popov: this war takes precedence over everything.
"Arm the troops to the teeth. Full supply on gear and munitions."
For many soldiers, an apocalypse of this size was a one-way march. He had to give them better kit and more ammo—
So their sacrifice would not be in vain.
Under total mobilization, Imperial resources would tilt hard to the war effort—to preserve morale and combat effectiveness.
As for ordinary citizens, they would have to accept reductions in civil supply.
If the war dragged on, forced requisitioning might follow.
Dawn City's construction, Webway repairs, the raising of Sacred Spires—these had already burned staggering resources. The Redeemer Expedition's tempo burned more.
Now came a theater-wide total mobilization. The appetite would be monstrous. Scarcity would dog the Imperium.
Not that the Savior's domains lacked resources—but what he needed now was urgent, and that pressure would be felt across many worlds.
There was no helping it.
Lose this war, and tomorrow would be worse than today.
Eden could picture it.
If the campaign dragged to the point he had to impose forced requisitions, blood would follow.
He couldn't help recalling his governorship on Urth, when the Eleven-Tithe crushed the world under Imperial levy.
People were ground down. Tens of billions fell to overwork and hunger.
Perhaps a century hence, the boomerang would curve back to the Savior himself.
The governor who once condemned the Empire's cruel tithe would have become the Emperor—the taxer on high.
Even if he had cause.
But no matter what, he did not want to reach the point of forced tithes.
Of course, that was only one of the dark branches he had mapped out. He would do everything to prevent it.
He paused, looking toward the Misty Sector's senior representative flickering in the war room, and was about to speak—
"Your Majesty the Savior, the Misty Sector has dwelt in darkness a long time. We truly cannot shoulder any more Eleven-Tithes!"
He wasn't the only one thinking it. The Misty Sector's magnate spoke first, cutting Eden off; even his voice trembled.
He feared his sector could not bear the cost of this war.
Traditionally, the Imperium levied war materiel locally on the theater. Richer worlds were "favored."
After a great campaign, a world could be stripped to whitened bone.
And under total mobilization? Would the Misty Sector be flayed raw—and his prefecture plunged into utter misery by the tithe?
Eden raised a hand, gently calming him. "No need to worry. I was about to say: the relief earmarked for the Misty Sector will likely be reduced.
"We're fighting a major war. Pressure's high. We need to retain some resources at the point of the spear."
War is war. Short of worst-case scenarios, basic relief would not stop.
At least enough to keep some Imperial lives intact.
…?
The Misty Sector's chief blinked. So the Savior wasn't planning to tax? Not tax—and still send goods?
That was… not very Imperial.
When the thought landed, the man nearly knelt. "Your Majesty the Savior—you are… merciful beyond words!"
Eden frowned and added, "This is temporary. If the war grinds on, I make no promises."
A war like this is money burned by the garners-full—every barrage shoving the wealth of a dozen worlds down the throats of guns.
The clock devoured oceans of materiel. Even he could not guarantee endless endurance.
"Your Majesty."
Popov spoke at last, his pudgy frame jiggling until it swallowed the chair.
The chief of Logistics, solemn and square, offered a pledge:
"Logistics has long maintained strategic reserves. We will ensure military supply throughout total war.
"Supplies on hand, routed fast, and delivered where needed!
"Not only that—we will maintain civilian guarantees.
"Within range of our lines, civil supply will not cease. We will not allow famine anywhere we can reach!"
"You've done well—planning ahead. Worth every honor."
Eden skimmed Popov's reserve tables and finally exhaled, a faint smile breaking through.
Per the filings—
The reserves branch had stockpiled war materiel continuously.
They had even petitioned the Interior for several worlds to serve as warehousing hubs.
Eden's eyes warmed to Popov.
A subordinate with hamster blood—who could hoard this well. No wonder Eden had appointed him.
With stockpiles like these, the pressure eased. He could prosecute the fight—
And buy time to sequence sane requisitions, instead of swinging the axe and triggering an Eleven-Tithe disaster.
"It's all thanks to Your Majesty," Popov replied. "Twenty years ago, during Your inspection of Logistics, You advised building a major contingency-reserve framework—expand depots and reserve infrastructure, and diversify our guarantee mechanisms.
"We followed Your guidance—and never stopped."
As he spoke, he cut a glance at a certain Interior grandee—
Who had always opposed Logistics' reserve program as wasteful.
Well. Look who's wrong now.
Truth be told, that was the broader Imperial attitude.
The Imperium had little concept or capacity for stockpiles. Resources barely warmed the ledger before being spent.
Warehouses so empty even the rats passed through.
What Logistics had done—shelving vast goods—was "impossible" to most.
If Popov hadn't waved the Savior's banner, claiming it was Eden's plan, the program would have died at birth.
After all, the Savior's domains could drink oceans of resource and still be thirsty.
"Mm. I do recall saying that."
Eden thought back—faint impressions only.
He'd toured the departments and talked a blue streak.
Then told the pros to use their initiative and get it done.
He himself couldn't be sure which measures would fit the Savior's domains. He could only set direction and let specialists execute.
If he'd rammed it through by decree, it might have broken everything.
Afterwards, he checked on the Forge Worlds, ordering them to ramp the new war-forge patterns for timely deployment.
By the time the war room's session neared its end, the star map was bristling with tags—a sprawling field of red.
Projected battlefields, every one.
Soon, the Savior-Emperor's mobilization order would sweep every Imperial reach he could touch.
Imperial armies, massing in waves, would hurl themselves into a theater as terrifying—and as meat-grinding—as any in living memory.
"Even when Horus besieged Terra, it wasn't this big…"
Eden looked up at the core of the map and felt the thought rise.
The Vostonia region was going to burn.
Imperium and Chaos would clash there, line to line, steel on steel. It would come down to mass and fire.
Perhaps this would be the first time the Imperium met a unified Chaos host head-on.
The ad hoc council ended. The delegates scattered to pull more partners into preparations.
Eden returned to the command throne on the bridge and gazed into the stars.
From the observation dome he could just make out the Vostonia region's distant stain—and the darkness creeping through it.
Like black fog, swallowing one world after another.
Even across that gulf, the dark made his heart stutter—and in it, the hint of a monstrous shadow.
A thing that could snuff worlds and fleets—and tear a star-fortress in two.
Boom—
Psychic arcs crackled.
Eden slammed back into the throne's rest, steadying himself. "No good. We still can't establish contact. The region's hedged round by a warp-storm."
He had tried to project oracular fragments toward Vostonia, leveraging his "little sun" nature.
But the attempt fell short—and chewed through oceans of will.
Who knew how much residue, if any, would seep through.
His brow furrowed, worry deepening. "That guy Lion… how is he? Don't tell me he's already getting dogpiled…"
—
Vostonia panstellar region.
Calisde.
Boom—boom—boom—
Dark-red miasma rolled over the world's skin. Inside it, sparks burst and vanished.
Gunfire and falling cities lit the storm. Hive spires toppled bit by bit. Even statues of the Emperor shattered and fell.
"By the Emperor—darkness has come!"
An Ecclesiarchy priest fell to his knees.
He stared in despair as a tumbling stone crushed him. In the last sliver of his sight, a winged daemon burned through the haze.
The statue's stone eyes bled.
"Sometimes, even a thousand guns cannot win a doomed field…"
A Dark Angels Chaplain gave his last exhortation, the iron halo at his back already broken, the knight-squad before him torn and bleeding—
But still they stood, swords planted.
His voice, rich and hoarse, carried on. "And it is in such hours of deepest night that loyalty proves itself. When defeat seems certain, we bear the duty to turn it."
He raised his blade, lighting its edge. "For the Lion!"
With that battle-cry, the knights followed their Chaplain and charged into the red murk—for their final fight.
And in the fog, the shadow waiting for them was… colossal.
(End of Chapter)
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