With the fall of the Tuskborn Federation, every gateway to the star sectors in the Central Ring lay wide open. Kenthelion's armada prepared to press on with their expedition after a brief respite to consolidate forces.
> "Gather all intelligence on the Central Ring, sort it by priority, and send it to the frontline fleet," Kenthelion commanded Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed.
"Immediately, Your Majesty."
True to the old adage, soldiers and steeds may wait, but intelligence cannot be neglected. Kenthelion valued information above raw military strength; the strategy of "knowing oneself and one's enemy" would be the key to the next victory.
Hundreds of elite spies slipped into enemy alliances, rival nations, and shadow organizations across the Central Ring. Their mission was clear: gather intel, sabotage enemy operations, and sow discord from within.
Meanwhile, in his command chamber—alive with mechanical whirs and flickering screens—Kenthelion sat with a grave expression. He murmured so quietly it was almost lost in the hum:
> "I think… I might be taking this too far."
Yet there was no time for regrets. In his bid to extend the Empire's supremacy, Kenthelion issued a covert order to the Magi and Arch-Sages of the Mechanicus: begin experiments on the Butcher's Nails.
Rather than deploying these brutal implants on humans, the modified version would be fitted onto select captured aliens. The goal wasn't to create an elite unit, but rather to build a "supplementary" alien force, officially sanctioned by the Ministry of Military Affairs and approved directly by the Emperor himself.
Though called "supplementary forces," Kenthelion was fully aware of these units' true purpose: cannon fodder.
They were not meant to win. Their role was to absorb enemy fire, draw attention away, and open gaps for the Empire's main forces to break through the lines.
Not every creature was fit for such a grim role. This corps would be recruited selectively: only juvenile aliens and the elderly would be enlisted. The reason was not sheer weakness but psychological warfare.
> When an alien soldier sees children and elders of his species charging toward him on the battlefield—what will he do?
Will he pull the trigger?
Does his heart have the strength to ignore instinct and compassion?
This was the Empire's brand of psychological warfare: ruthless, cold, and devastatingly effective.
The Empire never hesitated to kill aliens. To them, once a species betrayed humankind, it ceased to be a living creature—becoming merely a target.
In the main control room, Kenthelion stood before a three-dimensional holographic map of the galaxy. Beside him, Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed waited with respectful posture.
> "The next objective for the entire armada," Kenthelion said with steely resolve, "is to pierce the Central Ring. Bring the flame of war to their very heart!"
> "Acknowledged, Your Majesty the Emperor."
Creed bowed and relayed the orders through the strategic command network.
---
Beyond those walls, the galaxy did not remain still.
At first, various alien powers watched in quiet detachment, viewing the conflict between humanity and the Tuskborn Federation as a duel between two ravenous tigers. They would merely sit atop the mountain, await the victor, and reap the spoils of mutual destruction.
But that scenario shattered in an instant.
The human armada did more than destroy the Tuskborn Federation—it turned its blade toward the Central Ring. Their daring was not only surprising but also threatened to upend the entire power structure.
> "They're insane…absolutely insane. Humanity intends to exterminate every alien race in the universe…"
Panic rippled through alien alliances. The Central Ring—once a safe zone and nexus of power—swung to high alert. Armies stood ready. Fleets formed. Emergency defense treaties were signed across the sector.
They knew…
The madmen were coming.
---
"Attention, everyone! In the name of Imperium Caelestis and all humankind, I declare war on all non-human species!"
Kenthelion's voice roared across the Outer Ring through special Mechanicus broadcasting arrays. His words, laced with unbridled zeal and hatred, pierced every interstellar frequency.
"In the name of the Emperor! Crusade!!!"
Aboard the towering Gloriana-class battleship, The Warhound's Oath, Primarch Angron stood tall on the command dais. His eyes ignited with fervor, his voice thundered as he issued his impassioned command.
With The Warhound's Oath leading the line, thousands of warships from various worlds—Warhammer 40K, StarCraft, Star Wars, Halo, Stellaris, Gundam Series, and Mass Effect—prepared to enter warp jump in unison.
"To the Core!" Angron bellowed.
It took no more than moments for the Speyer Armada, the Castellan Armada, and Kylo Ren's Armada to follow Angron's lead, forming an immense offensive formation pressing into Central Ring space.
Meanwhile, from another vector, Jim Raynor's Armada, Alexis Stukov's Armada, the Old Wallfield Armada from StarCraft, and Admiral Yularen's Armada from Star Wars unleashed devastating strikes into the Outer Ring, obliterating the remnants of alien defenses.
Once more, the galaxy was set ablaze by war. Humanity's fleets surged like hellfire waves, burning alien worlds one by one—planet after planet, star system after star system—from the Outer to the Central Ring.
---
Meanwhile, in the Central Ring—the Mawborn Raiders' Stronghold:
The Mawborn Raiders' main base was the lone choke point between the Outer Ring and the Central Ring. The site bristled with hundreds of thousands of pirates and millions of warships—ever vigilant to raid and plunder any unescorted convoy.
"Captain! We're detecting massive spatial fluctuations!"
One crewman in the exterior flight pod shouted, panic in his voice as he reported to his captain on the main bridge.
The captain—a hulking Komodo pirate clad in dark green armor, a blade strapped across his back—responded with a booming laugh.
"Lads! Ready the energy grapplers! As usual, we'll leap onto their warships! Kill half the crew—that's our mercy!!"
His cry was met by wild cheers from thousands of bloodthirsty pirates.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!!!"
"Grab slaves! Grab loot! Take everything!!!"
Tens of thousands of raiders swarmed, boarding light to medium-class warships of various makes and models, forming a mass assault toward the source of the fluctuations.
"Damn it! Vexx wants to beat us to it!"
"You didn't even give us a heads-up!!!"
Other pirate gangs scrambled for position, jockeying to be the first to plunder any prize.
But amid the chaos and frenzied looting, one pirate captain froze. His face hardened.
"Something's…off."
The Mawborn Raiders were known not only for their brutality but for their sharp survival instincts. And such a massive spatial fluctuation… it was not the hallmark of ordinary merchant traffic.
Tiny fissures began to crack space itself. Streaks of light spilled from each tear, slowly expanding.
"No way… a subspace engine?! They're using a subspace drive!!"
His complexion blanched, and his right eyelid twitched uncontrollably.
If that was true, then this wasn't a commercial convoy. What emerged would be the military might of an Empire. And they were not here to trade.
"We're doomed…"
The captain sank onto his haunches. But he knew this was no time to surrender. He stood again, glaring at the tactical display now saturated with red blips.
"Sound the alarm! All ships, prepare to engage! We won't flee this time… We hold our ground and take whatever we can!!"
"BOOM!!!"
The starry sky detonated.
The Warhound's Oath, a Gloriana-class battleship, burst forth from the subspace rift like a herald of death. Its kinetic shockwave annihilated the entire pirate vanguard in an instant.
Emerging from that rift came wave after wave of warships—each from a different world, each bearing unique designs—lining up behind their leader, Primarch Angron.
"What in the—Holy hell…"
Countless pirate frigates were flung backward, struck from angles they never anticipated.
"Quick! Seize this moment! Board the enemy's capital ship! Kill their captain!!!"
Alien voices roared war cries in countless tongues as they charged toward The Warhound's Oath with savage ferocity.
"Let them through… It's time to slaughter the xenos."
Angron hefted his two massive chainaxes, still caked in blood from previous battles. His voice rumbled like thunder as he strode down from the dais. Beside him, Kharne the Betrayer followed silently, ever-thirsty for carnage.
"KILL! KILL! KIIILL!!"
Thousands of fully armed pirates broke into the main cabin, weapons raised, eyes blazing. But the moment they crossed the threshold… darkness swallowed them.
"What is this? Why is—"
One pirate barely finished before a sharp click echoed, and the lights snapped back on.
Surrounding them on all sides stood thousands of World Eaters clad in blood-red armor. Each held a chainaxe, their eyes glowing with lunacy and fury.
"THE MASSACRE BEGINS!!!"
Angron's roar shook the deck as he lunged forward, axes whirling with devastating force. Metal clashed, chains revved, and alien screams echoed through the confined space.
Blood spurted, flesh was torn, and pirate bodies were flung into pools of their own gore. The World Eaters advanced in lethal formation, leaving no path for escape.
"…It's over…"
The lead pirate captain could only whisper with vacant eyes, realizing his fatal mistake: attacking a battleship that even demons would shun.
The chamber of battle resembled a crimson inferno. Limbs were severed, weapons hurled into the air, and only the relentless swing of chainaxes persisted, devouring everything in their path.
---
Elsewhere, the Mawborn Raiders' captain looked up in horror at the golden double-headed aquila and towering cathedral spires emblazoned on the Gloriana-class battleship. His eyes widened.
"…Don't tell me… is that… an Imperium Caelestis battleship?"
He staggered and collapsed into a drainage grate in the observation cabin, trembling uncontrollably.
"ALL UNITS AT THE BASE! ARMS DEALERS! MERCENARIES! LISTEN UP! WE'VE SPOTTED AN IMPERIUM CAELESTIS WARSHIP! PREPARE YOURSELVES!!!"
His voice crackled across pirate radio frequencies, and immediately, every station shifted to full combat alert.
But instead of panic, a feverish exhilaration took hold. This was not just a threat… it was opportunity.
"If we manage to down one of their ships, our names will be known throughout the entire Central Ring!!"
"Open all arsenal vaults! Give everyone full access!"
"Activate all station shields! Fortify orbital defenses! Get our firing positions ready!!"
"Every combat crew member, to your stations! This is our chance to become LEGENDS!!!"
Thousands of pirate warships maneuvered, forming a rough but deadly formation. They knew who was coming, yet they did not flinch. What they saw was a chance to carve their names into history.
"FOR THE EMPEROR!! LET THE ENTIRE GALAXY BURN!! KILL ALL ALIENS!!"
Angron stood tall on the bridge of The Warhound's Oath, surrounded by the sacred flames and thick smoke of enemy wreckage. He raised his twin chainaxes high, his eyes alight with mortal madness, then swung them forward like an ancient warlord summoning apocalypse.
"ENCIRCLE THEM!! DESTROY EVERYTHING!!!"
His battle cry thundered across the fleet, broadcast through combat channels linking thousands of ships from every branch of the Empire.
In an instant, the warp drives of a thousand warships flared to life—a beacon of annihilation signaling the end of the worlds they approached. Ship after colossal ship completed its jump from the void, emerging with roaring engines and psionic energy flares.
From each vessel, Space Marines descended like arrows of celestial retribution, plunging onto the alien pirate ships with unstoppable precision and might.
They came as a storm.
Astartes companies from every Chapter—Blood Angels, Ultramarines, Black Templars—crashed from all directions. War cries filled the comm channels, accompanied by plasma blasts and the grinding roar of chainaxe motors.
Every pirate ship was transformed into a slaughter zone. No negotiations. No mercy.
"Purge this ship of xenos filth!"
"For Terra! For the Imperium! For THE EMPEROR!!"
One by one, pirate vessels fell from within, their decks echoing with futile alien death screams. All that remained were streaks of fire, rivers of blood, and the Eternal Glory of the Empire.
And above it all, from the main bridge of The Warhound's Oath, Angron laughed—a madman's laughter, a butcher reveling in a battlefield finally worthy of his fury.