Kaiser sat alone in his personal chamber.
The room was quiet, softly lit by a curved holo-panel hovering in front of him. Lines of data scrolled past his eyes—astronomical readings, signal echoes, long-range projections compiled by satellite modules stationed at the very edge of the Gaia System.
He frowned slightly.
"So we really are deep," he muttered.
The projections placed Gaia far from Holy Terra, buried in a distant, poorly charted sector on the dark side of the Imperium.
Sparse imperial presence. Weak astropathic coverage. Long response times, assuming anyone could respond at all.
Warp routes in the region were unstable, fractured by lingering anomalies. Kaiser skimmed the attached briefing.
Warp travel, as expected, was still humanity's primary means of faster-than-light movement. Ships entered the Immaterium, rode its tides, and prayed they came out where—and when—they intended. It was fast, yet absurdly dangerous.
Daemons. Warp storms. Possession.
Entire fleets lost to madness or worse.
Kaiser rubbed his temple.
"Yeah. Not touching that blind."
He leaned back, considering alternatives.
His empire's technology relied on precise calculations, stable corridors, and brute-force shielding. No emotions-powered dimension. No gods.
If they were going to move beyond Gaia, it would have to be slow, controlled, and clean.
Relativistic travel. Autonomous probes. Layered realspace jumps.
No warp incursions.
It would take time—but time was something he had at the moment.
Besides, the science department hadn't even finished exploring Imperial technology yet.
Kaiser skimmed another data layer, his lips twitching slightly.
The Imperium was… strange.
In raw power, some of their inventions were impressive.
Void shields that could shrug off continent-cracking fire.
Plasma reactors that ran hot enough to turn ships into flying stars.
Titans—walking cathedrals of war—were frankly absurd, even by his standards.
But the logic behind it all felt alien to him.
Imperium technology didn't advance forward—it endured. Designs were ancient, iterated endlessly rather than improved.
Innovation was treated like heresy. Maintenance relied as much on ritual as engineering.
A machine worked not because it was optimized, but because it was appeased.
Meanwhile, Stellaris tech followed a very different philosophy.
Everything was modular. Scalable. Replaceable.
If a system underperformed, it was redesigned.
If a reactor couldn't handle demand, you built a bigger one—or ten smaller ones connected together.
No prayers. No sacred oils. Just math, materials, and brute-force redundancy.
Imperial ships were tough, brutal, and stubbornly resilient.
His ships were precise, automated, and ruthlessly efficient.
One universe relied on faith to survive the impossible.
The other simply calculated until the impossible gave up.
Kaiser leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"This is going to be a very long journey."
---
In the neighboring sector, on the hive world Franc Prime, time had run out.
The planet was a steel-clad nightmare. Continent-sized hive cities stacked miles upon miles into the sky.
The upper spires enjoyed artificial sunlight, clean water, and imported luxuries.
Below, billions lived packed in rusted hab-blocks, breathing recycled air and working until they collapsed.
Order had always been fragile.
Then the Warp storms came.
Astropathic silence followed. Supply convoys stopped arriving. Imperial authority vanished overnight.
The disappearance of the Imperium ignited a dispute.
Civil war erupted within weeks.
Planetary Governor, Erik Gussman, stood in a dim command chamber, armor unfastened, his eyes bloodshot. Reports stacked across his desk—each worse than the last.
He can only prepare for the worst.
The noble house Cryan, once his strongest political rival, now led the rebellion. What began as a power grab had turned into something else entirely.
New intelligence confirmed it.
Warp-tainted sigils. Mutated troops. Impossible weapons.
They had fallen to Chaos.
"Traitors," Erik whispered hoarsely.
Cultists flooded the lower hives. Daemons were being sighted near manufactorum zones.
The Planetary Defense Force was exhausted, under-equipped, and slowly being pushed back toward the Governor's Spire.
If no help came soon,
Vordrast Prime would be lost.
"My Lord, the traitors have already secured the upper hive!"
The steward burst into the chamber, boots echoing sharply against the metal floor. His uniform was stained with soot and dried blood, breath uneven, eyes sunken with exhaustion.
Erik clenched his jaw.
"The upper hive…" he repeated slowly.
That meant the spire districts. Command centers. Orbital elevators. The places that mattered.
"Damn heretics," Erik snarled. "Is there still no response from the Sector Governor?"
"N-no, my lord," the steward replied, lowering his head. "Astropathic relays remain silent. The Warp storms haven't weakened. We are still alone."
Silence hung between them.
Erik dragged a hand across his face. He hadn't slept properly in days. Every report felt heavier than the last, like the world itself was pressing down on his shoulders.
"How are the casualties?" he asked.
The steward hesitated. "…The PDF's Third and Seventh Regiments have collapsed. Ammunition shortages are critical. Our morale is… failing."
"And those Cryan bastards?"
"They're advancing faster than projected," the steward said grimly. "Their troops don't rout. Some don't even bleed. Witnesses report chanting during assaults, some praises... to the dark gods."
Erik closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Chaos.
Of course it was Chaos.
The Imperium vanished, and the rot surfaced immediately.
"They're not just rebels anymore," Erik said quietly. "They're a cult with an army."
"Yes, my lord."
Erik straightened his back, fatigue hardening into resolve.
"How many citizens remain unarmed?" he asked.
The steward stiffened. "…Most of the lower and mid-hive population that made it to the upper-hive, my lord. There are just about a billion."
Erik looked at the hololithic map of Franc Prime. Red zones spread like an infection.
"If we fall back any further," he said, "the Spire falls. And if the Spire falls, the planet follows."
He turned to the steward.
"Issue a planetary decree," Erik ordered. "Mass conscription. All able-bodied shall fight. Factory workers, hive gangs, hab-laborers—everyone."
The steward's eyes widened. "By the Emperor, that will cause massive deaths, my lord!"
Erik's expression turned cold.
"Should I just let Daemons rule the planet?"
A pause follows.
"Understood," the steward said, bowing deeply.
As he turned to leave, Erik added one final command.
"Tell them this isn't about politics anymore. This is about survival. Fight—or be consumed."
The doors closed behind the steward.
Erik stood alone, staring at the dying light of his world.
And prayed—despite himself—that someone, anyone, would hear.
"Emperor, save us."