Deep in the Crimson Mountains of Aurelian's southern hemisphere.
This mountain range stretched for thousands of miles, its jagged peaks perpetually shrouded in dense fog. Viewed from high above, it looked like an endless sea of white clouds, pierced only occasionally by the highest summits.
No one knew that hidden within this seemingly desolate wilderness was one of Crimson Dawn's most critical military installations: Crimson Star One.
Right now, deep inside the base's central command room, hundreds of holographic screens lit up simultaneously. They fed the operators real-time footage of every square inch surrounding the Crimson Drake Gate.
Matthew Anderson stood before the largest screen, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore the dark gray uniform of a Dawn Defense Force Marshal, his epaulets stamped with three golden lightning bolts—the insignia of the Deputy Commander. The medal on his chest gleamed faintly in the monitor's glow, engraved with that familiar motto: "Labor earns dignity, hope guides the dawn."
At forty-five, he had a few gray hairs at his temples and fine lines around his eyes. But his gaze was just as sharp as it had been the very first time he held a lasgun down in the hive city. Back then, he was just a simple miner in Kent Hive. Sixteen-hour shifts alongside his father barely earned enough synthetic nutrient paste to keep their family alive.
Now, he was one of the most powerful men on the planet.
"Marshal Matthew," a voice called out from behind him.
Matthew turned to see a young man in deep blue psyker robes walking his way. The guy looked barely in his early thirties with clean-cut features, but the unmistakable, faint glow of psychic energy danced in his eyes.
"Lord Kanis." Matthew gave a slight nod, his tone carrying the respect due to a member of Crimson Dawn and a powerful psyker.
[Noble Casters Don't Take Shield Bashes] stepped up beside him, his eyes glued to the dense cluster of red dots on the screen. "Marshal Matthew, the Aurelian psyker network is already locked onto these five hundred drop coordinates."
He paused, swiping a finger through the air, and a halo of silver light instantly enveloped the five hundred red dots. "As long as they don't burn up during atmospheric reentry, our signal will track their exact positions. You're good to go."
Matthew watched the silver blips on the screen, a slow smile creeping onto his face. "Thank you for the assist, Lord Kanis," he said sincerely.
[Noble Casters Don't Take Shield Bashes] waved it off, a casual, easygoing smile on his young face. "Don't sweat it. We're all on the same team."
Matthew chuckled and left it at that. He unclipped the comms unit from his belt and keyed the channel. Static crackled for a split second before five overlapping voices fired back in rapid succession:
"Crimson Star 1st Air Squadron, copy!"
"Crimson Star 2nd Air Squadron, copy!"
"Crimson Star 3rd Air Squadron, copy!"
"Crimson Star 4th Air Squadron, copy!"
"Crimson Star 5th Air Squadron, copy!"
The sharp, no-nonsense discipline of the military echoed through the comms. Matthew's voice hardened into ice.
"Crimson Star Air Squadrons one through five, scramble all fighters." His eyes locked onto the five hundred silver dots, a cold glint in his pupils. "Listen up! You are to intercept every single one of them using the high-energy capture nets Lord Kanis provided before they can burn up in the atmosphere! Secure the targets and bring them back to Crimson Star Base!"
His voice barked with unquestionable authority. "I repeat! Do not let a single one slip through!"
The comms went dead silent for half a second. Then, five voices roared back in perfect, ear-ringing unison:
"Marshal Matthew, 1st Squadron acknowledges. Consider it done!"
"2nd Squadron acknowledges. Consider it done!"
"3rd Squadron acknowledges. Consider it done!"
"4th Squadron acknowledges. Consider it done!"
"5th Squadron acknowledges. Consider it done!"
Matthew lowered the comms, his gaze drifting back to the cluster of silver dots. They were dropping like rocks, closing in fast on Aurelian's atmosphere.
A faint smirk played on his lips. "Five hundred gifts falling right out of the sky," he muttered, a hint of dark amusement in his tone. "Welcome to Aurelian."
--
At that exact moment, up on the surface of Crimson Star One.
A jaw-dropping scene was unfolding at the military base hidden deep within the mountain range. Over ten massive peaks, which served as camouflage, were slowly shifting apart with a deep, rumbling mechanical groan. The noise echoed through the valleys, scattering massive flocks of birds from the cliffsides.
As the faux mountains rolled back, they revealed ten pitch-black tunnel entrances. These hangars were massive—two hundred meters wide and twenty meters tall—easily large enough for a dozen fighters to launch side-by-side. Inside, rows of blue floodlights flickered on, illuminating the gargantuan runways that stretched deep into the bowels of the base.
Then, the first fighter jet emerged. Its aerodynamic chassis was about twenty meters long with a wingspan close to twelve meters. The dark gray hull gleamed with a cold, metallic sheen under the hangar lights. Painted clearly on the fuselage was the emblem of the Crimson Dawn: a rising sun breaking over the horizon, framed by wheat stalks, cogwheels, and stars.
Tucked under the wings were four air-to-air missiles, their warheads painted with stark red hazard warnings.
The Crimson Arc III fighter.
It took the Dawn Research Institute eight long years and three major overhauls to finalize the mass-production design for this all-weather multi-role jet. Top speed: Mach 3.5. Maximum altitude: forty-eight thousand meters. Armament: four Crimson Wasp air-to-air missiles, two Thunder ground-attack bombs, and a nasty thirty-millimeter autocannon. It could be retrofitted with a variety of tracking missiles or laser-guided munitions, making it perfect for dogfighting, air-to-ground strikes, and recon patrols alike.
But the most important part? It could be manufactured entirely in-house by Aurelian.
No Imperial Coins required. No relying on the System Store. No bowing to anyone else's whims. This was raw, untethered power that belonged solely to the Crimson Dawn.
Over the past twenty-three years, Aurelian hadn't just been booming economically and socially; their military had been expanding on steroids. Paul knew damn well that surviving the coming bloodbath of the Warhammer universe meant a few thousand—or even a few tens of thousands—of players wouldn't be enough to defend their home. Because of that, their military industrial complex had been expanding at an aggressive, almost terrifying pace.
Honestly, if standard kinetic warfare wasn't completely outclassed by the Warp-fueled bullshit native to this universe, Crimson Dawn's current arsenal could have easily conquered a dozen neighboring star systems by now. Between their massive reserve drafts and overwhelming firepower, these thousand Crimson Arc III fighters were merely the tip of the iceberg.
The first two Crimson Arc fighters taxied out of the hangar in perfect sync, gunning their thrusters at the end of the runway and blasting off into the sky. Then came the third, the fourth, the fifth. In less than three minutes, a flat thousand Crimson Arc III jets poured out of the mountain. They swarmed the horizon like a massive flock of migrating birds, blotting out the sky.
The armada quickly fell into formation—five squadrons of two hundred fighters each, instantly breaking off into five hundred two-ship elements. Strung between every pair of jets was a massive capture net.
These things were top-shelf System Store goods bought by the Crimson Dawn players, setting them back two thousand Imperial Coins a pop. The netting was woven from an advanced polymer strong enough to airlift a Leman Russ battle tank. The most downright dirty part about them? The cords were laced with an ultra-adhesive gel. Once you got stuck, you weren't breaking free without an industrial cutting torch.
The fleet of Crimson Arc IIIs ascended in a flawless grid, gunning their engines toward the five hundred dropping red blips. Their exhaust trails painted the pristine blue sky with five hundred beautiful streaks of pale blue fire. From a distance, they looked like an apocalyptic storm cloud made of iron and jet fuel, accelerating relentlessly toward the falling silver lights.