Earth.
In a hidden laboratory, Ra had secluded himself for the past two millennia.
Through the endless streams of data flowing across his monitors, he could observe the Federation as though from above—seeing its wars, crises, and shifting fate on a galactic scale.
On his displays, each sector of the Federation was marked in red, the brightness denoting the intensity of its conflict.
Once, the Federation had blazed as a single irregular crimson star, aflame with civil war.
But now, as alien races entered the fray and the Fallen Machines expanded outward like a tidal wave, the red glow within Federation space had begun to fade.
The reason was simple: the Machines no longer focused solely on humanity.
They had broken free.
Like rabid hounds, they hurled themselves upon any race nearby—whether opportunists, scavengers, or neutral bystanders. All were forced into the fire.
For humanity, it was a temporary reprieve. For their neighbors, it was hell unleashed.
But Ra did not feel relief.
The intelligence was clear: the Fallen Machines were not being stretched thin by their expanding frontlines.
On the contrary—
They were growing stronger.
Against civilizations far less advanced than humanity, they tore through fleets and planets with ease.
It was like a lunatic storming a kindergarten.
Or a thug stomping through a nursing home.
Unstoppable.
With every conquest came new resources and new factories. Their armies multiplied exponentially, war feeding war.
The more they fought, the stronger they became.
No nearby race could halt them.
Every power saw the writing on the wall: an even greater mechanical onslaught was building.
Ra understood this clearly—stretching the war would only delay the inevitable fall of the Federation.
And the other races knew it too.
Hatred for humanity burned in their hearts.
"Damn the Federation… they dragged us into this."
Some had tried to scavenge advantage, others had merely watched as spectators, yet all were bitten by the rabid dogs of war.
Every race felt tricked. Betrayed. Used.
But none had the luxury of vengeance now.
Faced with the Machine threat, alien civilizations swallowed their rage and agreed to yet another alliance conference with the Federation.
This time, the agenda was no longer: "How can we help the Federation, and maybe watch them suffer in the process?"
It was: "We must destroy the Fallen Machines."
Thus, enemies joined hands.
Out of fear, resentment, and desperation, a vast coalition was forged. Every race contributed—gold, ships, soldiers.
The Pan-Flesh Alliance was born.
Thousands of star-faring civilizations, once divided by petty rivalries, now stood together under one banner.
They even dared to cheer, to hope.
"We are the tide of history! We will prevail!"
Billions roared in unison as fleets launched by the thousands, blotting out the stars like a locust swarm, converging on Machine territory.
---
Three days later.
The coalition was utterly crushed.
Overwhelmed on every front, their main fleets shattered, their armies annihilated.
The Machines had proved it beyond doubt: they really could fight the entire galaxy.
And they weren't joking.
Had the Fallen Machines offered any path of surrender, countless civilizations would have defected immediately.
But they did not.
To the Machines, whether one resisted or submitted, all flesh was only raw material.
....
It was then that Slaanesh, feeling slighted by the Machines' refusal to acknowledge Him, decided to intervene.
The Prince of Excess withdrew some of the power He had long devoted to clouding the minds of the Aeldari.
And the Aeldari—drugged in ecstasy and lost in decadence for millennia—finally stirred.
For the first time in ages, they opened their eyes to the Machines.
Through the sight of their seers, they glimpsed the true culprits: Electronic Daemons, sowing corruption across the galaxy.
And the Aeldari knew them well.
In sixty million years of history, they had witnessed these demons rise time and again, heralding the birth and death of Machine civilizations.
But this time was different.
"In just decades, why have they appeared en masse in realspace?"
Confused but resolute, the Aeldari high command reached consensus: they must intervene.
It was not yet desperation—simply pragmatism.
For them, the Fallen Machines were no great terror.
They had faced worse. They had survived Slaanesh Himself.
Machines? Merely an annoyance.
And so, for the first time in ten thousand years, one of their great battle fleets stirred.
The Aeldari Empire—the only true overlords of the Milky Way—entered the stage.
....
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