Ultima Segmentum, Eastern Fringes, 28th Expeditionary Fleet.
Pride of the Emperor.
A Gloriana-class battleship, the flagship of the Emperor's Children Legion.
Its hull boasted the classic spindle shape—sharp at the prow, widening in the midsection, and tapering at the stern—with a longitudinal axis stretching over twenty kilometers. It was like a mobile, purple-and-gold palace drifting through the void.
The base armor was the signature deep purple, bordering on burgundy, of the Emperor's Children, with massive swathes of the plating inlaid with gilded filigree. A gargantuan phoenix insignia was carved into the prow... the eternal symbol of the legion.
Every single feather had been meticulously polished by master artisans, gleaming radiantly in the starlight. The ship's flanks were adorned with intricate victory inscriptions and heroic reliefs, chronicling every major triumph the legion had achieved since its inception.
Gun turrets, blast doors, and viewport frames were all lined with gold plating, and even the barrels of the macro-cannons were etched with decorative patterns. It hardly looked like a machine of war. It was more akin to a masterpiece of art, a floating sanctuary, a space-faring epic singing the praises of perfection and glory.
Right now, on the bridge of the Pride of the Emperor.
A lone figure stood quietly before the massive, curved observation deck, measuring thirty meters high and fifty meters wide. Standing nearly three meters tall, he was clad in a suit of purple power armor of unfathomable elegance.
Dark gold energy veins flowed across the armor's surface, and every single plating had been polished and sculpted with the utmost precision. A golden phoenix spread its wings across his pauldron, while a massive ruby was set dead center in his breastplate... rumored to be a trophy pried from the crown of some conquered xenos world. He had flowing, shimmering white hair cascading over his shoulders, the tips brushing against his waist. His face was as handsome as a classical sculpture, every proportion of his features adhering strictly to the golden ratio. He had large, welcoming eyes, a prominent nose, and a mouth that habitually wore a slight smile. But his gaze... right at this moment, was as freezing as the absolute zero of deep space.
Fulgrim.
The Third Son of the Emperor, Primarch of the Emperor's Children, the very incarnation of perfection, a patron of the arts, an elegant aristocrat, and... the man destined to fall and become the favored champion of Slaanesh. But for now, he was still the pride of the Imperium, a razor-sharp blade carving a path outward for human civilization.
On the holographic starmap in the center of the bridge, a planet was slowly rotating.
Official Imperial Designation: 28-3, Laeran.
Local Xenos designation: Laer.
Ninety-eight percent of the planet's surface was submerged beneath an ocean. The Laer's architecture was primarily situated on atolls. Utilizing highly advanced anti-gravity technology, they constructed floating platforms out of a crystallized coral material.
At the center of these floating reef-islands were clusters of energy pillars, the power generators that kept the platforms suspended in mid-air. These pillars simultaneously expelled fire and generated intense thermal drafts, artificially carving out a livable space in a completely oceanic world.
From a macro perspective, the platforms where the Laer resided resembled a colossal archipelago, interwoven with countless narrow streets and spiraling steeples. Only the peaks of what used to be the highest mountain ranges and ancient structures managed to pierce through the surface of the planet's boundless sea.
"My lord," an Imperial official said, adorned in a lavish administrator's uniform covered in a chest-full of medals. He stopped exactly three meters behind Fulgrim and offered a deep, respectful bow. "The reconnaissance fleet has completely lost contact. Casualties are... one hundred percent. The five destroyers, twenty scout ships, and three companies of scouts we deployed... have all been destroyed. The enemy fleet fired some sort of... energy beam weapon, entirely wiping out our recon vanguard while remaining completely unscathed themselves."
Fulgrim did not turn around.
His gaze remained locked on the holographic starmap, fixed entirely upon that azure planet.
"Analysis results?" the Primarch asked, his voice clear and calm, yet carrying an unquestionable authority.
Another Tech-Priest—half his face augmented with cybernetics, data cables snaking from the back of his skull into his power pack—stepped forward. His mechanical optic sensor pulsed with a red glow. "Based on linguistic samples from the xenos envoys and the anatomical dissection of the three scouts we captured, we have confirmation. The Laer are an amphibious, serpentine-humanoid species, averaging two meters in length with grey-blue skin and four arms. Their societal structure operates as a parliamentary system, and their technological tree heavily favors energy weapons and shielding tech."
The Tech-Priest paused, his synthesized, metallic voice turning even colder. "Most importantly... they have refused to join the Imperium. The envoy's exact words were: 'The Laer bow only to our own laws, worship only our own gods, and will never yield to any outsider.'"
A deathly silence fell over the bridge of the Pride of the Emperor. Every officer, technician, Navigator, and Astropath... held their breath.
To refuse the Imperium.
To refuse the Emperor's glory.
To refuse... perfection.
Fulgrim slowly turned around. The smile had vanished from his flawless face, replaced by a freezing, almost inhuman indifference.
"So," his voice echoed across the massive bridge, "what is your recommendation?"
The imperial official from earlier bit the bullet and spoke up. "My Lord, according to Chapter Three, Article Twelve of the Council of Terra's Xenos Contact Regulations, Seventh Edition, for alien species possessing highly advanced technology and a sufficient level of civilization, we can consider... subjugating them as a vassal state. We could allow them to retain a degree of autonomy, provided they pay tithes of resources to the Imperium and share their technology."
He sped up his delivery, desperate to convince the Primarch. "Conquering Laeran is projected to require the deployment of at least ten Astartes companies, thirty Solar Auxilia cohorts, and a grueling ground campaign lasting decades. But if we adopt a vassalization strategy, we can reach an agreement within three years, securing a stable annual influx of resources and technology from the Laer... while simultaneously weakening and absorbing them through alternative means over time..."
"I refuse," Fulgrim interrupted him.
His voice wasn't loud, but it struck everyone's heart like a sledgehammer. Because they knew exactly what this meant: the Phoenician, the flawless Primarch of the Emperor's Children, was going to war.
Fulgrim took two steps forward, his purple power boots emitting sharp, rhythmic clacks against the mirror-polished deck. He approached the holographic starmap and extended a hand. It was a hand as perfect as a masterpiece of art—long, slender fingers, distinct knuckles, and immaculately manicured nails. But right now, that hand was pointing directly at Laeran.
"Only humanity is perfect." For the first time, emotion bled into Fulgrim's voice... a freezing cocktail of disgust, pride, and a certain paranoid fanaticism. "Any xenos race that harbors its own ideals and wields technology rivaling that of mankind... is an absolute blasphemy against us. A blasphemy against the Emperor's glory, a blasphemy against human perfection, and a blasphemy against the fundamental truth that humanity alone is meant to exist in this galaxy."
He withdrew his hand and clasped it behind his back, straightening his imposing, three-meter-tall frame. His long white hair seemed to drift without a breeze, his purple cape fluttering slightly behind him.
"Therefore, there will be no peace," Fulgrim declared, his gaze sweeping over every soul on the bridge—the imperial officials, the Tech-Priests, the legion officers. His voice suddenly pitched higher, ringing out like a divine decree. "The Laer must be exterminated. Their civilization must be erased, their technology must be destroyed, and their world... must be planted with the aquila of the Imperium."
The Primarch paused, then laid down his martial vow, enunciating every single word. "I, Fulgrim, Third Son of the Emperor and Primarch of the Emperor's Children, do hereby swear an oath to the Emperor, to the Imperium, and to all present here today... One month. I require only a single month to plant the Imperial aquila in every corner of this world. The Cleansing of Laeran is about to begin. And history shall record it as such..."
Fulgrim's voice reverberated across the bridge, etching every syllable into the souls of the audience. "In 000.M31, through flawless tactics, impeccable execution, and unparalleled martial prowess, the Emperor's Children Legion completely eradicated a technologically advanced xenos civilization within a single month. This war will once again prove to the galaxy..."
He turned on his heel, his cape billowing to reveal the hilt of the power sword at his waist. "...that humanity is the sole master of this universe. And any xenos that dares stand in the path of human progress..."
Fulgrim drew Fireblade, the eerie blue glow of its disruption field illuminating his flawless face. "...shall meet only one end: absolute purification."
Across the bridge, every officer of the Emperor's Children slammed their right fist against their left breastplate in unison, roaring as one:
"For the Emperor! For Perfection!"
The thunderous shout echoed through the cavernous space. But near the back of the crowd, hidden among the fresh recruits recently assigned to the fleet's auxiliary cohorts, [The Imperium's Purest Inquisitor] silently lowered his head. His fists quietly clenched at his sides.
Not out of excitement.
But out of... fear.
He knew this history. In official Warhammer canon, the Cleansing of Laeran was one of the final major campaigns the Emperor's Children fought before their corruption. The conflict raged for an entire month, and while the legion did indeed win the war, they paid a devastating price. Fulgrim's paranoia and perfectionism were magnified to catastrophic extremes during the campaign, and in the end... he would claim a certain blade housed within a temple on that world. A blade that would become one of the primary catalysts for his descent into the embrace of Slaanesh, the Lord of Excess.
One month... Vance thought to himself, a bitter smile touching his lips. Oh, Fulgrim... you're just as arrogant as ever.
He lifted his head, gazing at that flawless purple silhouette at the front of the bridge. Gazing at the Primarch of the Emperor's Children, a demigod completely oblivious to his own tragic fate.
So, in this game... what can I actually change?
Vance glanced toward another section of the bridge. There was a small squad of players standing over there as well, but the IDs floating above their heads were a sickly, malevolent black. He had no idea why Chaos-path players were also stationed aboard the Pride of the Emperor, nor did he know what difference he could make.
But he knew one thing for sure: from this moment on, he had to survive. He had to get stronger. He had to... forge his own path in this grimdark universe. No matter where that path led. At the very least, he needed to live long enough to see how this story ended.
He looked down at his status panel—at his stash of a few hundred Imperial Coins and his Basic Physique Enhancement sitting at 36%—and tightened his fists.
--
Meanwhile, lightyears away on Aurelian IV, the transport fleet from Kent Hive was slowly touching down on the sprawling plaza in front of the Governor's Mansion.
The new players filed out of the drop bays, craning their necks to take in the magnificent city before them... marveling at the citizens in their crisp uniforms, the patrol airships cruising overhead, and the towering, sky-piercing architecture in the distance...
And then, they saw the golden silhouette standing before the main gates of the Governor's Mansion. Clad in a towering, three-point-eight-eight-meter suit of Aquilon Terminator armor, possessing dark golden irises, and those five mesmerizing stars slowly rotating within his eyes.
Paul stood there like a golden sovereign awaiting the triumphant return of his generals. He offered a faint smile, his voice projecting clearly across the entire plaza.
"Welcome to Aurelian. Welcome to... Crimson Dawn."