Over a thousand World Eaters warships, blessed by the Blood God, cruised through the vast Star Wars universe.
That number—while not immense—was still significant. Compared to the galactic sprawl, it was no more than a handful of sand scattered into the sea. But neither was it negligible—when these frenzied engines of war surged forth in full force, they could easily drag entire star systems into an endless vortex of slaughter.
These steel monstrosities, blessed by Khorne, had begun to emulate the cunning of Tzeentch's devotees—lurking in the folds of the Warp lanes like predators coiled in dimensional crevices.
Standard warp-jump signal scans, hyperspace lane surveillance, even predictive jump-tracking systems, struggled to detect their elusive movements.
Their engines spat scarlet trails, their bridges constantly echoing with war cries and the hum of skull altars. Each appearance heralded sudden, indiscriminate death.
Should these Khorne zealots dare to invade systems defended by the Imperial Fists or Iron Warriors, what awaited them would be the thunderous retribution of two entire Legions.
The orbital defense platforms of the Imperial Fists would greet the invaders with an impenetrable array of macro-cannons, each shell infused with absolute loyalty to order.
The Iron Warriors' siege fleets, meanwhile, would orchestrate mathematical slaughter to perfection, shredding these Blood God worshipers into warp dust with precise, despair-inducing firepower nets.
Faced with such absolute defenses, any Khorne fleet would be reduced to a metallic graveyard adrift in the void—unless they concentrated overwhelming numbers on a single point defended by the Fists or Warriors, and fled before either Legion could fully respond. Only then could "slaughter" and "terror" continue to spread.
Yet in star systems not yet integrated into the Imperium's dominion, the World Eaters vessels were like rabid dogs loosed from their chains.
They raided defenseless colonies, turning entire surfaces into blood-soaked arenas with chainswords and boltguns.
They tempted local warlords into the embrace of the Blood God, spreading war as a plague from one civilization to the next.
Each successful slaughter drew Khorne's gaze ever closer, every battle won feeding more power into the warp fissures.
Most dangerous of all, these scattered raids were not random.
In Samuel Young's precognitive visions, they spread like viruses along the dark side of the galaxy, deliberately avoiding heavily fortified imperial zones and striking only at soft, vulnerable edges.
After each success, they vanished into the depths of the Warp like droplets of blood fading in water—leaving behind chaos contamination on an ever-expanding scale.
This guerrilla strategy made their eradication akin to catching sand in the desert—draining and nearly impossible to root out.
On this grand galactic chessboard, these followers of Khorne were insignificant pawns—but also potentially fatal viruses capable of triggering chain reactions.
Each of their jumps wove an unseen crimson web across the galaxy.
"…"
Samuel Young's fingers tapped habitually on the armrest of the Golden Throne, producing a deep metallic echo.
His brows furrowed as golden pupils reflected the streaming data across the holographic star map before him.
Fragments of foresight flickered in his consciousness—
Unconquered colony systems, Chaos fleets lurking in warp currents, and tens—no, hundreds—of thousands of star-faring civilizations awaiting integration.
After all, the Star Wars universe's potential far exceeded expectations.
In Samuel Young's vision, the Star Wars universe was to become a rear stronghold, akin to Starship Troopers and Halo universes—a production base of vast depth.
On the holographic star map before the throne, countless luminous points formed a resplendent galactic tapestry.
The projected data streams froze mid-air as pale blue waterfalls—each set of numbers spoke volumes about this universe's staggering potential.
Spanning 100,000 light-years, with three million member systems, the total number of intelligent lifeforms rivaled, even surpassed, that of the Warhammer 40K universe. Its hyperspace route network resembled a finely tuned neural web linking all major systems.
Its scale far exceeded the combined mass of both Starship Troopers and Halo universes.
Samuel Young's gaze pierced through the fog of data, seemingly witnessing countless forge worlds rising amidst the stars. The Star Wars universe would become the Imperium's most solid rear, offering near-infinite troops and resources for transdimensional campaigns.
But danger always lurked beneath light.
On the star map, several regions pulsed orange-red—
The greedy trade empire of the Hutts, the warlike Mandalorian clans, and the slave traders and pirate syndicates flourishing in the Outer Rim.
These natural breeding grounds of Chaos were like toxins within the "body" of the Imperium—capable at any time of triggering warp corruption.
The data feed shifted suddenly, displaying detailed genetic profiles of the Zabraks and Twi'leks.
Zabrak muscular fibers twitched on a microscopic scale, their nerve reflexes vastly exceeded human baselines; Twi'lek neural diagrams revealed a unique spatial awareness structure, marking them as natural-born starfighter pilots.
Samuel Young's fingertip slid across the star map and halted on the star system housing Iridonia—the Zabraks' homeworld.
Magnified, this red-atmosphered planet slowly rotated in the void, its surface covered in jagged mountain ranges and boiling sulfur lakes. The harsh conditions had bred the species' formidable physiology.
More importantly, most Zabraks were Force-sensitive. This meant they could easily become Jedi Masters or Sith Lords—and potentially indicated psychic aptitude.
The most iconic and famous among them was, of course, Darth Maul—the double-bladed lightsaber wielder.
If such talents were corrupted by Chaos, the consequences would be unthinkable.
Thus, incorporating the Zabraks into the Imperium required a complete filtering and control mechanism.
Samuel Young marked the critical points in the data stream.
In his vision, black-and-white waves of Sisters of Battle marched in formation, their flamers burning heretical texts in Zabrak city squares.
Knights would raise Imperial banners in each settlement, enforcing the spread of the Codex Imperialis and the Imperial Cult through thunderous means.
Most vital was the construction of academies for children. Selected Force-sensitives would be strictly monitored and trained, their every ounce of talent to be used by the Imperium.
Of course, as long as the Zabraks obeyed Imperial law and regulations, their quality of life would vastly surpass the past.
The star map shifted again to reveal a blue planet called Ryloth—the Twi'leks' homeworld.
Samuel Young's gaze fell on the racial analysis: data on their vibrant rainbow-hued skin tones, and most notably, the intricate neural networks in their head-tails.
The projection showed a Twi'lek dancer spinning gracefully, her indigo tendrils tracing elegant arcs with every motion—each movement a meticulously calculated work of art.
Yet behind this beauty lay a bloody history.
Data surfaced from the Inquisition, chronicling the horrifying slave trade across the Star Wars galaxy.
In just the past three centuries, over twenty million Twi'leks had been recorded as sold into Coruscant's high society as living decorations.
And yet, Twi'lek culture still preserved rare moral codes.
They upheld strong familial values and long-standing community traditions—traits that aligned closely with the core values of the main-universe Imperium.
Their artistic talent could bolster the Imperium's propaganda efforts, while those with heightened spatial perception would make exceptional fighter pilots.
Most importantly—population replenishment.
This species had a fertility rate 20% higher than humans and no reproductive barriers with them—making them ideal for front-line reinforcement.
Two decisions gradually solidified in Samuel Young's mind.
Zabraks would become the Imperium's new psychic blades, their homeworld militarized and repurposed for conscription.
Twi'leks, on the other hand, would be models of cultural integration—elevating Imperial image while accelerating population growth.
Two races. Two distinct paths. Both leading to Imperial glory.
No matter what, the Chaos gods of the warp could not be allowed to run rampant in the Star Wars universe.
After browsing the Inquisition's incoming reports, Samuel Young switched the display again, returning to the status of the World Eaters fleet ravaging the Star Wars galaxy.
Those crimson tendrils left corrosive trails on the dimensional walls, each pulse an attempt to seep into a galaxy not yet wholly secured by the Imperium.
Chaos must never take root here.
Samuel's psychic senses extended into every corner of the strategic map—
The Star Wars universe's population, resources, and technology, once integrated, would give the main-universe Imperium the capital to strike back against the Warhammer 40K galaxy and face its horrors head-on. The Golden Throne's radiance would truly illuminate the multiverse.
"…"
Next, Samuel flipped his hand, and a deep-blue auxiliary screen unfolded on the edge of the main display.
The hum of an encrypted channel establishing was especially clear in the stillness of the meditation hall, and the holographic system began to render a projection.
First emerged the exquisitely crafted Primarch armor, followed by pauldrons engraved with the Legion insignia, and finally—
"Father."
The projection within the hall vividly displayed the image of Lorgar, Primarch of the Ninth Legion, the Word Bearers, from the main-universe Imperium.
Lorgar stood like quenched steel, his custom power armor reflecting a cold gleam from each groove.
Compared to the "wrathful" incarnation in Hell, this "true son" displayed a gratifying steadiness.
"Mhm."
Samuel nodded slightly in response.
Streams of data flowed silently between them. Star map data of Universe No. 17 (Star Wars) unfurled in space, dozens of blinking red conflict zones stabbing at the retina.
Without exchanging pleasantries, Samuel said:
"Over in Universe 17, it seems Dorn and Magnus are struggling to consolidate and occupy territory. Immediately gather all combat-ready forces of your Legion and proceed to Universe 17. You'll temporarily serve under Magnus's command as acting Warmaster."
"At once, Father."
Lorgar raised his right fist to his chest, polished armor ringing out a firm vow.
"Go, then."
"Yes."
Their exchange was brief and efficient.
Once the transmission ended, Samuel dismissed most of the screens and ceased paying direct attention to the Star Wars universe.
After all, the might of six Astartes Legions was sufficient to establish a steel wall and methodically expand outward.
Half an Earth month later, on the outer rim of the Star Wars galaxy—
A solitary star had burned for billions of years, its light taking six full standard years to reach the nearest trade hub.
Three terrestrial planets orbited this star, with the second lying perfectly within the habitable zone.
Its atmosphere held 21.3% oxygen, 68% of its surface was covered in liquid water, and it even possessed rare promethium mineral deposits.
It should have been a dream world for interstellar colonists—but had long since become a microcosm of the Galactic Empire's tyranny.
Giant ore refineries towered over what were once fertile plains, spewing crimson fumes that stained the clouds a sickly orange.
Hab-modules lay arranged around the mines like metal tombstones. Through dirty observation ports, gaunt miners could be seen repeating mechanical motions.
Following the complete downfall of Emperor Sheev Palpatine and the eternal silence of Darth Vader, the Galactic Empire's political ecology underwent a malignant transformation.
The once terrifying Imperial Fleet had splintered into countless hyena packs without an alpha. Each fleet huddled in its own domain, baring teeth at former allies.
Admirals and sector governors parked their flagships above core worlds, drawing boundaries with orbital arrays and becoming de facto warlords.
These warlords shared eerily similar ruling methods—
They kept the Imperial emblem, but quietly embedded personal crests in the corners.
They still levied "special Imperial taxes," but had the funds wired directly into personal vaults.
They maintained conscription—but branded the recruits as private household troops.
Ironically, this fragmented state was no different from the Empire's peak—back then, they too ruled their sectors like petty kings, merely sending taxes and troops to Coruscant on schedule.
Now, these petty emperors wearing Imperial uniforms had simply torn off the last fig leaf.
Amid the galactic night, countless stars flickered uncertainly in the ambitions of schemers.
Whoosh—whoosh—!!
But then, a vortex of pink-purple light tore through reality in the system, and the sickly peace was shattered.
Dozens of warships from the World Eaters Legion burst from the Warp and entered orbit around the second terrestrial planet.
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