The top-floor office of the Kent Hive Governor's Mansion.
A ten-meter-tall floor-to-ceiling window offered a panoramic view of the entire upper hive. Paul stood before the glass, his golden body bathed in the morning light. Deep within his dark golden irises, five stars slowly rotated in a constant, mesmerizing orbit.
"So, veteran players from the first closed beta," he said, turning to look at Cogboy sitting on the sofa, "can't select the Sacred Door or the Door of Chaos?"
Cogboy's mechanical prosthetic eye flashed with a pulse of blue light. He picked up the cup on the table—a custom brew prepared by Helovia herself using native Aurelian tea leaves—and took a small sip.
"Yeah. That's right," Cogboy replied, a hint of helplessness coloring his synthesized voice. "When the login interface popped up, only the Door of Dawn in the center responded. The Sacred Door and the Door of Chaos on either side were completely inert... like a couple of oversized decorations."
A faint smile touched the corners of Paul's mouth. He nodded thoughtfully, turning his gaze back to the sprawling cityscape beyond the window.
The streets below were laid out in a rigid, unified grid. Mag-lev tracks wove a complex net through the air, and small aircraft patrolled along strict, fixed flight paths.
In the distance, the silhouettes of Kent Hive's two satellite cities were clearly visible. These were the surface cities built over the last twenty-three years: Crimson and Dawn, situated on the east and west sides of the hive, respectively.
Crimson was a military fortress, garrisoning the three most elite legions of the Dawn Defense Force, complete with comprehensive anti-air batteries, orbital defense platforms, and subterranean hangars.
Dawn, on the other hand, was the beating heart of research and education. The headquarters of the Dawn Mechanical Academy was located there, right next to Aurelian First University... Helovia had insisted on that specific name, arguing that they needed a proper starting point.
"It seems it's because you already have existing vessels," Paul murmured softly. "Your bodies, memories, social ties... they all have established, complete anchors in this universe. The System... or rather, He... won't allow you to switch factions."
He paused, his tone taking on a deeper, more profound weight. "It makes perfect sense. In the Warhammer universe, betrayal never comes without a price. Hopping from the Imperium to Chaos... or vice versa, usually costs you your soul."
Cogboy set his cup down, his metal fingers leaving a barely perceptible scratch on the ceramic.
"Did Tax Bro go pick up the new players?" Paul asked.
"He did," Cogboy nodded. "Took about seven or eight hundred men with him, along with fifty Thunderhawk gunships and a hundred and fifty transports. The White Scars tagged along too. Said they wanted to give the fresh meat a little taste of the White Scars' signature shock and awe."
Paul chuckled again. It felt like only yesterday when that original batch of players woke up in the abandoned Workshop No. 7, completely unarmed, only to be immediately captured by the Aru Group's corporate security forces. He looked back out the window.
"What a coincidence," Paul murmured to himself, the rotation of the five stars in his eyes picking up speed. "The players who chose the Door of Dawn actually spawned in Workshop No. 7."
Cogboy's mechanical eye suddenly contracted, its glow shifting from blue to a harsh red. "Are you saying..."
"It's a deliberate arrangement by Him," Paul interrupted, the stars in his dark gold eyes spinning even faster now. "Guiding the new players to the exact spot where we first started. It's symbolic... a passing of the torch, or perhaps... a test. Out of the one hundred thousand players in the second closed beta, 16.6 percent chose the Door of Dawn. That's roughly sixteen thousand, six hundred people. The players who picked the Sacred Door and the Door of Chaos have been scattered across the entire galaxy. But those who chose the Dawn faction... every single one of them spawned on Aurelian, all concentrated right in Workshop No. 7. He purposely divided the player base into three groups; there's a deeper meaning to this. The players in the Imperium faction will spare no effort in fortifying the Imperium. The Chaos faction players will spread corruption like madmen. And Crimson Dawn, as the faction with the smallest population and the weakest local presence, will have to bear the dual pressure of both the Imperium and Chaos simultaneously. But don't tense up just yet. I can sense He bears no ill will, at least not toward Crimson Dawn. Is there an ulterior motive? Is it a disguise? I can't say for sure. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, though. The players who actively chose Crimson Dawn at least share a higher degree of alignment with our ideals. Splitting the player base into three factions effectively separated those with conflicting philosophies, which helps us maintain the ideological purity of Crimson Dawn. Even if I don't fully understand His intentions..."
He looked up at the sky outside the window. The morning sun had fully risen, casting a faint golden halo across the atmosphere of Aurelian IV. Up in orbit, the faint patrol trajectories of a fleet could be seen... the Light of Dawn Fleet, the culmination of twenty-three years of Crimson Dawn's hard-earned naval power.
"Since He gave Crimson Dawn an opportunity, we're going to seize it," Paul declared, clenching his fist. His golden power armor groaned with the friction of grinding metal.
"No matter what conspiracy lies behind this, no matter what storm is brewing on the horizon... we will protect this land. We will guard the hope that thirty billion people have watered with twenty-three years of blood and sweat. And while we're at it, we'll cast the light of hope forged by Crimson Dawn even further into the dark. We'll start... right here, with those few backwater planets in the Aurelian system that the Imperium couldn't care less about. We need Imperial Coins... and the Aurelian Dawn Defense Force needs resources just as badly."
Cogboy nodded. He raised his mechanical arm and lightly tapped his right fist against his left chest... the standard salute of Crimson Dawn. "Understood. I suppose our next step is to welcome our new comrades."
--
Workshop No. 7.
Calling it a workshop was a stretch; it hadn't been one for a long time. Twenty-three years ago, when Paul led the first batch of players to awaken here, Workshop No. 7 was nothing more than an industrial wasteland overflowing with scrapped machinery, reeking of motor oil and rusted iron.
Now...
"Holy shit..." a player with the ID [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] muttered, his jaw dropping as he took in the sight before him.
It was a boundless, sweeping prairie. Lush, knee-high grass rippled like rolling green waves in the gentle breeze. Endless hills stretched into the distance, giving way to the faint, jagged silhouettes of snow-capped mountains on the horizon. The sky was a brilliant, washed-clean blue, dotted with a few lazy, drifting white clouds. The air was so fresh it practically made you want to cry... a crisp, authentic scent carrying the earthy aroma of grass, soil, and a faint, lingering floral fragrance.
"Is this game... one hundred percent immersion?" another player, ID [You Ashe I Soraka], took a deep breath. "You can even actually breathe the air?! This is way too real!"
[Darkness Before Dawn]: "Look at those buildings in the distance... is that a city? With that kind of scale, it has to hold at least a few hundred thousand people."
[Crimson Zealot]: "I picked the Door of Dawn because the description promised an ideal world. Judging by this... well, at least the environment isn't half bad."
There were over fifty of them in total, all from the same batch that had just awakened from the incubation pods. Every single person was dressed in a uniform gray jumpsuit—simple in design but durable, featuring a small Crimson Dawn insignia on the chest. Across the rest of Workshop No. 7, similar groups of players in gray jumpsuits were materializing and gathering. In the blink of an eye, a dense sea of people swallowed up the surrounding prairie, their numbers swelling to a staggering sixteen thousand.
Right now, the players were huddled in massive clumps, chatting over each other in a chaotic din.
"Did you guys see that System faction prompt?" [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] lowered his voice. "We have to help our faction achieve ultimate victory, otherwise our accounts get deleted and banned... isn't that way too hardcore?"
"Yeah, I saw it," [You Ashe I Soraka] replied with a bitter smile. "Plus, Crimson Dawn has the smallest population, only 16.6 percent. The Imperium has 44 percent, and Chaos has 39 percent... how the hell are we supposed to fight that?"
"No, guys, forget about winning or losing for a second." A third player, [Optimus Lemme Pilot You Real Hard], chimed in, pointing at their surroundings. "Don't you think... this doesn't feel like a mecha game at all?"
As soon as he pointed it out, it dawned on the rest of the crowd. Wasn't this supposed to be Epoch 40K: Mecha? Weren't they promised a sea of stars to conquer? So why did they just wake up in a grassy field? Where were the mechs? Where were the starships? What happened to piloting giant robots to blast aliens?
Just as the crowd was sinking into a mire of confusion and creeping disappointment...
BZZZZZZT!!!
A deafening roar ripped through the sky. Every player snapped their heads up in unison.
And then, they witnessed the most awe-inspiring scene they would ever see in their lives.
Hundreds of aircraft tore through the cloud cover, diving straight toward their position. Leading the vanguard were fifty Thunderhawk gunships. That sleek, aggressive, and razor-sharp silhouette, the missile pods slung under the wingtips, the twin-linked heavy bolters mounted beneath the nose glinting coldly in the sunlight... anyone who had ever seen a scrap of Warhammer media couldn't possibly mistake them.
Trailing closely behind were over a hundred massive transport ships painted in deep crimson. Emblazoned on their flanks was a striking insignia: the sun of Dawn, resting above stars, ears of wheat, and a cog.
"Holy shit?!" [How Many Floors Can You Carry a Sack of Rice] blurted out.
The regional chat instantly exploded.
[You Ashe I Soraka]: "Thunderhawks?! Literal Thunderhawk gunships from Warhammer?!"
[Optimus Lemme Pilot You Real Hard]: "Wait a minute... that logo on the transports... I've seen that somewhere..."
[You Ashe I Soraka]: "No! Look at the gunships! People are dropping out of them!"