Earth Time, Year 18,325 CE.
After countless trials, both Ra and Delico reached the same conclusion: the Warp Jump Engine could not be perfected in the short term.
The Warp's chaotic nature made it impossible to calculate a flawless formula for spatial transition. At best, they could only rely on approximations that reduced — but never eliminated — the risks of accidents during jumps.
Thus, despite its flaws, the Warp Jump Engine was officially unveiled.
Because of Ra's circumstances, the sole credited developer was Delico. His name spread across every colony, broadcast through networks and news channels.
To billions, he became the greatest inventor of the past ten millennia of human history.
Though imperfect, the engine transformed civilization.
Journeys that had once required centuries could now be completed in months, even days.
But the Warp was never safe.
Many ships began to vanish without a trace. No one knew where they went — stranded in timeless voids, devoured by daemons, or simply lost forever.
Yet profit trumped fear. People were willing to kill for wealth; why hesitate at risking lives for fortune? Complaints were drowned beneath the tide of progress.
With the new mobility, the Federation's fleets gained unprecedented reach. No longer paralyzed by distance, they could bring overwhelming firepower to rebellious colonies within weeks.
Governors who once flirted with independence suddenly rediscovered loyalty.
"Independence? You must have misheard! We live and die as citizens of the Federation!"
Within a few years of sweeping reforms, the collapsing framework of the Human Federation was reforged into a tight, centralized order.
Historians later marked this as a turning point — the moment humanity truly became an interstellar civilization.
Interplanetary travel was no longer a generational undertaking. Colonization accelerated with astonishing speed.
Compared to the past, humanity had leapt from paddling canoes to flying aircraft overnight.
It was efficient, transformative, unstoppable.
And if a ship disappeared? Life went on. Widows remarried, husbands found new wives. The universe did not pause for grief.
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Meanwhile, in another corner of the galaxy…
The Aeldari had ruled unchallenged for millennia.
Their throne of galactic supremacy remained secure.
Billions of warships patrolled the stars, while Warp creatures posed little more than nuisances.
As for the mindless Orks?
Even their endless reproduction — where a single spore could infest a planet within decades — was nothing more than a renewable resource.
To the Aeldari, Orks were little better than wild game. Many officers deliberately seeded Ork infestations on barren worlds, only to periodically return for slaughter practice — turning genocide into sport.
As the Children of the Old Ones, the Aeldari possessed the Webway, enabling them to traverse the galaxy freely. To them, the Milky Way was not a vast frontier but a hunting ground.
But prosperity brought rot.
Their hypersensitive physiology, hundreds of times more acute than that of humans, left them perpetually craving greater stimulation.
Ordinary pleasures grew dull.
They pursued extremes: cruel entertainments, sadistic rituals, even torture and butchery as casual pastimes.
Whole worlds were annihilated for amusement. Entire species were enslaved, their skins flayed to craft grotesque "art." Such atrocities were considered light indulgences.
Immortality through soul-rebirth in the Warp only fueled the madness.
Some Aeldari mutilated themselves, carving flesh to bone, reshaping their bodies into twisted forms to heighten sensation.
Pain and pleasure blurred.
They became strong, cruel, frenzied, decadent, gluttonous for excess.
And in the Warp, their unhinged emotions fed the slumbering Fifth Chaos God — Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure.
As he drew closer to awakening, his corrupting influence seeped back into their minds, luring them ever deeper into depravity.
It became a perfect cycle: the Aeldari's debauchery nourished Slaanesh, and Slaanesh in turn fueled their descent.
The Aeldari were becoming the perfect feast — a galaxy-spanning banquet prepared for their dark god's first awakening.
Amidst the collapse, some resisted.
A minority of sober-minded Aeldari recognized the danger but were powerless to stop their kin, much like reasoned words cannot dissuade addicts in the throes of intoxication.
Others foresaw impending doom through prophecy. These began building Arks, massive world-ships designed to house their clans, preserve knowledge, and escape the empire's fate.
Faithful followers of their gods resisted corruption longer, but temptations grew stronger each century. Fewer and fewer held fast.
As for their pantheon — distracted, dulled by Slaanesh's influence — they dismissed the corruption of their worshippers as mere cultural decay.
To immortals who measured time in tens of millions of years, a few millennia of decadence seemed no more than a passing mood.
They never realized the truth: Slaanesh was already steering everything from the shadows.
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T/N:
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