Blazkowicz
The Rangdan fleet arrived in waves, pouring into the conquest corridor. Above the planets they controlled in the hemisphere, battle moons entered synchronous orbit, looming like unnatural, artificial satellites.
On every planetary battlefield, these battle moons hung high, radiating an endless, suffocating pressure. No matter what name this place went by, both sides had already accepted it as the stage for their final decisive battle. Countless ships converged upon the star system from every direction.
The two fleets drew a clear, stark line in the void. Each side suppressed its fury, patrolling within its designated control zone while waiting for the final assembly of their remaining strength.
As the Imperium of Man deployed its legions, the Rangdan Empire's slave-transport ships opened their bellies in high orbit, dumping their expendable slave-armies onto the surface. Aliens of myriad hideous forms were churned together—creatures so grotesque and so numerous that they would strike cold fear into the hearts of even the bravest warriors. They wore nothing but simple carapace armor, carried a chaotic hodge-podge of weapons, and emitted a stench that rotted the very air around them.
The alien thralls were consumables; they had no need for professional logistics. A starch ration derived from processed corpses and a weapon that could barely fire a shot—this was all the Rangdan provided. Had these been human troops, morale would have shattered under such conditions. Yet, this slave-army remained a formidable force. They had drunk the Rangdan brain-fluid; in return, they had offered absolute loyalty and a fanatical, mind-numbing zeal that allowed them to fight until death, totally indifferent to the torments of the hellscape they occupied.
This was the absolute, irresistible power of the Rangdan! On the battlefield, the thrall-armies utilized their overwhelming numbers and unthinking loyalty to exhaust their most stubborn enemies.
The fuse of the war was already hissing. As the thrall-armies converged from every corner of the system, the true prologue was about to begin. If they did not attack, the self-consumption caused by keeping the slave-armies deployed for too long would be horrific.
And so it happened. As the expendable armies solidified their lines, the Warp tore through the void, and a series of unique, heavily individualized warships entered the material universe.
The Rangdan Overlords had descended upon the battlefield!
To counter the Gene-Primarchs of the Imperium, the Rangdan Overlords had arrived in person. This would be a duel of transcendent life forms.
Everything transpiring in the outer theater was projected onto the desk in Blazkowicz's room. Blazkowicz sat cross-legged on his bed, a massive hand clutching an archaic game controller. He manipulated his digital character to ravage the boss, multitasking with ease, his peripheral vision monitoring the scrolling data streams.
A rhythmic, unnatural vibration shuddered through the floor. According to the analysis of the logic core, this was the mark of the Rangdan deploying their Titan Legions and heavy siege ordnance. He paid it little heed; beneath every line of incoming intelligence, the ground command center had already appended a contingency plan.
Junior is a truly capable man!
Blazkowicz sighed internally. Since he had first stepped into the void, he had never faced a war with such ease. The old-blooded noble from Terra had shown his true worth. From the Unification Wars on Terra and the reconquest of the Sol System to the purging of the Solar Segmentum during the Age of Strife, and finally the pacification of the Ultima Segmentum under Nur—Junior had not missed a single campaign, leading the original Legion from start to finish.
Forged in the fires of countless wars, he had tempered a unique wisdom for the craft of battle. His aesthetic of war was bland; he possessed no earth-shattering, miraculous strategies, nor was he prone to devious, backstabbing schemes. But he could always, step-by-step and with calm composure, secure victory.
With this gifted son-in-arms, Blazkowicz's days stationed on the fifth planet—aside from occasional inspections of the defensive network—were spent mostly hunkered down in his quarters. He played electronic games, drank carbonated beverages, and lived a life of comfort and leisure.
Hiss.
Blazkowicz easily finished off the final boss. The blast doors to the room opened, and Halan strode in, his movements powerful and predatory.
"Is the cargo ready?" Halan asked immediately, his eyes flashing with a touch of exasperation.
Before him stood the young King of the Norvik, dressed in casual loungewear. He hadn't shaved his beard in ages, and his hair was as tangled as a haystack. The Champion Swordsman wanted to bark a reprimand, but he opened his mouth and the words died in his throat.
Thinking on it, Halan decided that Blazkowicz's ability to remain this relaxed might not be a bad thing—at the very least, his mindset was closer to that of a normal man. It was reassuring, not having to worry about him taking unnecessary, reckless gambles. After all, if a Gene-Primarch truly decided to "make a mess" of things, the fallout would likely be earth-shattering.
News had leaked from the recently redeployed Iron Hands: before the Dark Angels arrived at the seventh planet, a quiet, secret purge had likely taken place within the First Legion out in the dark void. Many of the Terran-born veterans had vanished, and the Legion now existed under the absolute, undisputed authority of Lion El'Jonson. Compared to his other brothers, Halan thought, Blazkowicz was, by all accounts, quite normal.
"Right here." Blazkowicz gestured to the corner of the room, picked up his drink to savor it, and lay back on his bed, half-closing his eyes. He hadn't been entirely idle during his rest.
Following Junior's suggestion, Blazkowicz had hand-carved a series of medals, preparing to award them to the various talented individuals who had made extraordinary contributions after the war concluded.
Halan walked to the carving station, opened the box, and his eyes brightened. The medals were lined up inside; with his keen eye, he could tell they were all hand-carved, each texture unique. The base was black, ringed with carved, runic blessings; the middle ring was crimson, featuring a micro-carved image of a warrior so lifelike it symbolized the ultimate glory of victory; the inner ring was gold, embossed with words of praise; and at the center was a platinum Nur sword-orchid, a symbol of courage and honor.
Halan nodded with satisfaction, closed the box with extra care, and turned to look at the man lying on the bed. "A few days ago, another Rangdan Overlord appeared on the enemy line. It is clear they are coming for you."
"Hmph!" Blazkowicz snorted, sitting up straight, his face full of disdain. "Pay them no mind."
"Once the war begins in earnest, the Rangdan will adopt a policy of attrition in the early stages to deplete our manpower; they will never commit their elite forces to an attack. Otherwise, there would be no point in landing the thrall-armies."
"The Rangdan Overlords will not dare launch a charge during the period of maximum fire density—unless they have a death wish."
"Their appearance is merely to signal intent and apply pressure."
Blazkowicz dismissed the Overlords' motives, signaling to Halan that he need not worry. "I will inform the Guard. Have them occasionally patrol the border defenses to ease the pressure on the mortal Auxilia."
"That puts my mind at ease." Halan nodded, holding the box of medals, and walked out of the room.
The heavy steel gate slowly slid shut, and Blazkowicz lay back down, staring at the ceiling and lost in thought. Two Rangdan Overlords?
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. Then, on the fifth planet, how many commanders do they have? Although the Rangdan were a single race, they were composed of thirteen distinct clans, and each Overlord was the commander of a clan. The battlefield of the fifth planet had been confirmed as a flat basin stretching for hundreds of miles; both defensive lines were on the highlands outside the basin. The width of the battlefield was strictly limited—how could they deploy two different Rangdan clans?
As for the Rangdan launching an attack from elsewhere? Blazkowicz never worried about that. The fifth planet was far too close to the pulsar; the electromagnetic storms were intense. Without shields or artificial atmospheric protection, a single storm could instantly melt an army caught in the wilds. Furthermore, the diurnal temperature range was extreme—daytime temperatures in the wilds reached thousands of degrees, while at night, they approached absolute zero.
The thrall-units could not survive in the wild, and without the support of the thrall-armies, the elite forces would never attempt a raid on the human lines in such hostile conditions. It was impossible! Even if the Rangdan elite miraculously made it through the wastes, the dense fire-lines of the Imperium would tear them to shreds in an instant.
Unable to outflank, which of the two Rangdan clans would lead the assault? Who would support? How would they swap? How would they coordinate their defense when attacked by humanity? Superimposed, these factors meant that the two Rangdan Overlords, while appearing aggressive and unstoppable, were in fact rife with internal friction. If there were only one clan on the field, Blazkowicz would be even less concerned: a single high-level combatant would never turn the tide before his eyes.
He lay on the bed, eyes closed to rest, calmly awaiting the arrival of total war without a ripple of anxiety in his heart.
Suddenly!
As Blazkowicz was drifting off, his eyes snapped open. A stern, heavy light flickered in his dark pupils. He rose from the bed, washed up at the vanity, walked out of his quarters in three long strides, and looked up toward the stars.
A massive warship entered the material universe, its engines erupting in a blinding glare of light as it drove toward the Rangdan-controlled sixth planet.
"The Supreme Overlord..."
Compared to what the physical eye saw, Blazkowicz pierced the veil of illusion, witnessing a distorted darkness shrouding the J-11 system. He felt as though he could hear the agonized screams of countless Psykers as their wills were twisted by the dark; he felt the souls of the Astropaths tremble, choked by an invisible hand.
Then—the golden sun pierced the dark—
Where the darkness had gathered, a golden sun slowly rose, driving the blackness back, forcing it to retreat. In the Warp that mirrored this material sector, the gold and the dark were sharply defined, two oceans crashing against one another in mutual annihilation.
The human Psykers felt a warmth and a power they had never known before; one by one, they knelt toward the golden lighthouse, crying out with fervor: "The Master of Mankind!"
The Imperial Banner stood firm in the void, and it began its advance!