[You don't know much about the Rangda, or rather, the Rangda Empire.]
[You only know that even with today's rapidly advancing technology and development, the human empire, currently on a great expedition, has launched three consecutive wars against Rangda.]
[Three wars. Three separate campaigns against a single xenos empire. The numbers alone spoke to the threat level.]
[The direct cost was the deaths of several legions, nearly hundreds of thousands of Astartes, and the annihilation of at least one Primarch and his entire legion; the indirect cost was the incineration of dozens of star sectors and countless humans and other xenomorph races reduced to ashes.]
[The Emperor himself had been forced to unleash one of the galaxy's most dangerous prisoners just to maintain the war effort. The Void Dragon, a C'tan shard of immeasurable power, freed from its prison because the alternative was losing the Great Crusade entirely.]
[They endured. Despite everything the Imperium had thrown at them, despite the casualties and the burned sectors, the Rangda persisted. Ten thousand years into the future, they still haunted the stars.]
[The realization settled into your gut like ice water. You. A single warrior with fragmentary memories and a crew of half-starved sailors. Against an empire that had made the Emperor himself desperate.]
[Too coincidental. Too precise. The timing, the location, the overwhelming force deployed against what should have been an insignificant backwater market. They'd come for you specifically.]
[But why? Who were you that warranted such attention?]
[You gripped the merchant rogue trader's incredibly vulnerable neck with a metallic hand, forcibly breaking into his underground arms depot.]
[The crew of over a hundred sailors quickly obeyed your orders.]
[They moved with the discipline you'd drilled into them over the past weeks. No hesitation, no panic, just immediate compliance. Good. That training might be the difference between life and death.]
[They abandoned guarding the goods and followed you into the traveling merchant's underground warehouse.]
[The surface cargo, all those weapons you'd hauled across the desert, became instantly irrelevant. Survival trumped profit. The sailors streamed down the stairs after you, boots clanging on metal steps.]
[The underground warehouse opened up before you, vast and climate-controlled. Row upon row of shelves stretched into the distance, each one packed with weapons and equipment from a dozen different civilizations.]
[Your voice boomed through the space, amplified by your armor's external speakers. "Everyone, find armor or similar defensive gear to replace your existing laser weapons or any other usable xenos technology weapons. Don't forget about ammunition, grenades, and other supplies. Besides essential food supplies, carry as much ammunition and supplies as you can!"]
[You coldly surveyed the shelves overflowing with a dazzling array of weapons and equipment around you.]
[You casually tossed aside the trembling, tear-streaked merchant, and strode towards the weapons shelf.]
[You have temporarily put away the two xenos short spears.]
[You ripped off the hooded cloak covering you and began hanging weapons from the ceramite shell.]
[You casually picked up two old-fashioned Phobos-pattern bolters and tucked them into your waistband, while simultaneously stuffing bolt magazines into the storage space of your power backpack.]
[You shifted your gaze, looked around, and found two Shuriken catapults on the weapon rack, which you then slung over the back of your power backpack.]
[The xenos weapons were lighter than their Imperial counterparts, their organic curves at odds with the angular brutality of human design. But shuriken catapults never ran out of ammunition as long as their power supply held, the weapons manufacturing their own monomolecular discs from internal reservoirs.]
[At this moment, the limp merchant, lying on the ground, frantically moved his thin, pale legs and crawled to your magnetic boots.]
["My lord! My lord! You and your men can take any weapons and equipment you like! But if you choose to break out, could you please take me with you?"]
[His voice cracked with desperation, each word pitched higher than the last. Naked terror stripped away any dignity he might have possessed.]
["I really don't want to be a lowly slave under the Rangda Xenomorphs. Other Xenomorph races say that experience is worse than death!" He clung tightly to your ceramite leg, his face contorted in agony, pleading in a wailing voice.]
[The implication was clear. Whatever the Rangda did to their slaves, it made even xenos races who had seen the galaxy's horrors recoil in revulsion. Death would be merciful by comparison.]
[You look down at the other person with a blank expression.]
[You leaned forward slightly, and the enormous metal hand once again lifted the weeping, wandering merchant into the air.]
[Your voice emerged low and dangerous. "Where is your escape route? I don't believe you would build your underground warehouse into a tomb with no way out!"]
["My lord! It's right there... right over there! There are several large, newly repaired vehicles hidden behind the wall. I originally intended to use them to trade with others..."]
[The pale-skinned, bloodshot merchant pointed tremblingly to a metal wall in the underground warehouse.]
[His finger shook violently as it indicated the far wall. Up close, you could see seams in the metal, evidence of a concealed door.]
[Before you could even speak or give the order.]
[One of your trusted sailors, 'Big Head,' immediately understood and ran in that direction.]
[He propped his enormous head up, fumbled around in front of the metal wall for a while, then forcefully turned some kind of switch.]
[With a sickening whirring sound of mechanical valves turning, the entire metal wall slowly began to move to the side!]
[Emergency lighting flickered on automatically, revealing the hidden garage. Two Orus APCs sat on their tracks, both showing extensive battle damage. Bullet scars pockmarked their armor plating. Las-burns had melted sections of their hulls. But they were intact, relatively speaking.]
[Xenos transports in various states of disrepair littered the remaining space. Some were little more than twisted metal and shattered components. Others looked almost functional, missing only key parts.]
[You couldn't help but take a deep breath, forcing an awkward smile.]
[Your face twisted into what you hoped was a grin but probably looked more like a grimace. "Guys! Get someone who knows what they're doing to go up and see if they can start the engine! If they can manage to steer it, start loading ammunition and supplies up!"]
[The order rang out across the warehouse. Sailors immediately sprang into action, several running toward the APCs while others began hauling crates of ammunition.]
[You abandoned the terrified traveling merchant you were carrying and let him join the ranks of those transporting supplies.]
[You turn to continue hanging the available ammunition and supplies on your body, one fragmentation grenade after another wrapped around the ceramite casing.]
[Your armor became a mobile arsenal. Grenades clipped to mag-locks on your chest plate, waist, thighs. Frag grenades, krak grenades, anything that would explode violently when you needed it to.]
[Perhaps it was your plan to help the traveling merchant escape that earned their trust.]
[The merchant's voice called out, higher-pitched with excitement. "My lord! Over here! This... this might help!"]
[You turned to see him holding up a circular device. An iron halo, the personal force field generator used by high-ranking Imperial officers. Blood, long dried to brown crust, still caked portions of its surface. Someone had died wearing this.]
[Through the miraculous power of the traveling merchant, you successfully installed the Iron Halo above the power backpack.]
[A personal shield. Another layer of protection between you and death.]
[Before you can even celebrate your successful escape, your chances of survival have greatly increased.]
[At that moment, you all clearly sensed violent tremors emanating from above the ground, along with faint, terrifying wails.]
[This undoubtedly proves that the Rangda Empire's ground vanguard has successfully landed.]
[This also signifies the successful dismantling of the insignificant resistance of the technological oligarchs on this primitive, technologically advanced planet, marking a complete defeat.]
[You took a deep breath.]
[Air filled your lungs. You held it for a moment, centering yourself. Fear was natural. Panic was death. You exhaled slowly, forcing calm through your system.]
[You quickly ordered everyone around you to abandon carrying more ammunition and supplies, and force your way into the two operational Orus armored personnel carriers.]
["Forget the rest! Get in the vehicles now!" Your voice cut through the activity like a blade. "We move in thirty seconds whether you're aboard or not!"]
[The sailors who couldn't fit inside sat on top of the armored personnel carriers.]
[Bodies packed into every available space. The APCs' interior benches filled completely, sailors pressed shoulder to shoulder. Those left over clambered onto the hulls, grabbing handholds and mag-locking themselves to the armor plating.]
[Even risking being mowed down by enemy fire is much faster than running on two legs.]
[Better a quick death from a shot to the back than whatever the Rangda did to prisoners. The sailors understood the math. They held on tight.]
[Just as you were about to drive your power armor deeper into the underground passage to scout ahead.]
[Your magnetic boots were already moving, carrying you toward the tunnel that presumably led to an exit. Then something caught your eye.]
[You unexpectedly discovered an Eldar jet bike repaired by a traveling merchant among a pile of nearby alien vehicles.]
[The sleek xenos machine gleamed under the harsh lights, all flowing curves and antigrav technology. Completely repaired, completely functional, sitting there like a gift from the Emperor himself.]
[Without hesitation, you dragged out the alien vehicle and mounted it, driving your power armor.]
[Your armored bulk settled onto the bike's elongated seat. It groaned under the weight, not designed for someone in full ceramite plate, but the anti-grav compensators engaged with a rising whine. You lifted slightly, the bike's systems straining but holding.]
[You gripped the jet bike's control stick with one hand, activating the anti-gravity device, and picked up a loaded bolter with the other.]
[The controls felt alien under your fingers, designed for limbs with different proportions. But muscle memory kicked in, fingers finding their positions automatically. The bolter came up in your other hand, the weapon's weight perfectly balanced.]
[Accompanied by the almost deafening roar of the engines of two Orus armored personnel carriers.]
Both APCs' engines coughed, sputtered, then roared to life. Exhaust fumes billowed in the enclosed space. The vehicles lurched forward on their tracks, metal grinding against stone.
[You shouted loudly at the crowd without turning your head.]
Your voice boomed through your helmet's external speakers, pitched to carry over the engine noise. The words emerged as a battle cry, a declaration of intent.
"Come on, guys! Let's gamble our lives against the Rangda alien!"
You gunned the jet bike's throttle. The machine shot forward, anti-grav lifters screaming as they fought against your weight.
And then, almost without thinking, the final words burst from your lips. Words that felt right, that resonated in your bones despite your shattered memories.
"For the Emperor!"