Twenty-four hours later—
Whoosh—!!
A blinding vortex of cerulean energy tore open in low orbit over Tatooine, like a cosmic wound in the fabric of reality.
The massive prow of an Emperor-class battleship burst forth from the rift, shimmering with residual warp energy still clinging to its shielding.
Trailing behind it was a steel tide—over a hundred warships emerging from the warp corridor, their thrusters flaring as they accelerated into formation. Hundreds of ion plumes vaporized the surrounding space dust into brilliant streaks of "auroras."
Tatooine's twin suns bathed the fleet in searing light, illuminating the golden insignias of the Imperial Fists painted along the hulls—the iconic clenched fist gleamed vividly against the backdrop of the desert world's ochre haze.
The orbital defense arrays and guarding fleet instantly locked their scans on the incoming fleet, but swiftly shifted to friendly recognition codes in green.
Seventy-two hours earlier, the Imperial Fists' support forces had thoroughly cleansed this sector.
Through the observation window, remnants of a shattered Chaos fleet drifted in orbit.
Among the twisted metal husks, a few still floated in the exact positions they'd held when impaled by the Spear of Victory, a testament to Athena's brutal precision—every throw had pierced straight through the enemy cores.
Farther out, crimson spellclouds—residue of Hera's sorceries—lingered in the void. Any Chaos construct foolish enough to pass through was instantly atomized.
However, the planet's surface remained volatile.
Sunlight streamed through the bridge windows, casting diamond patterns across the floor. Standing before the central console, Rogal Dorn stared down at a rotating 3D projection of Tatooine's surface.
Hundreds of pulsing red markers blinked across the desert terrain. Each one denoted a Chaos stronghold—residual filth clinging like blood-ticks in abandoned moisture farms, deep canyons, and wrecked starships buried beneath sandstorms. Standard orbital bombardment would not dislodge these scattered infestations.
Inside the transports, the new recruits—children of Tatooine—crowded near portholes.
Their faces glowed with reflected starlight from their twin suns, expressions hard with vengeance and resolve.
Some reached instinctively toward trinkets hidden beneath their uniforms—keepsakes of loved ones. Others stared fiercely at specific regions of the sand seas, silently guessing where their families might lie buried.
For the first time, they gazed upon their home not as victims, but as conquerors. The shift in perspective ignited the flames of retribution deep in their chests.
Tactically speaking, Tatooine was already stabilized.
Dorn's presence was not required. Sigismund's fleet alone, supplemented by support forces, could finish purging the remaining Chaos forces with ease.
But Dorn chose to come personally—for deeper reasons.
The arrival of a new Primarch warranted it. As his brother's elder, Dorn felt obligated to appear. Moreover, the Emperor had already dispatched a specialized medical team ahead to Yavin IV—a silent order for Dorn to oversee the situation himself.
The newborn Primarch's caretaker might be Athena or Queen Tinas Loslrian of the Elves, even their shared foster mother Alexia—but it certainly could not be Hera.
Hera, once the Queen of Olympus and the consort of the traitorous god-king Zeus, had avoided participating in the rebellion. She lived among mortals for millennia in hiding. Still, her title carried too much baggage.
Meanwhile, Dorn's other motive was clear: Tatooine, relatively secure yet still harboring scattered Chaos remnants, made an ideal training ground. Here, the recruits would face low risk yet gain the satisfaction of confronting their enemies on home soil.
The scarred world—once ravaged by Chaos—was now set to receive the iron baptism of the Imperium. And these young warriors would witness their own transformation from victims to enforcers of justice.
Lastly, Dorn's fleet carried vast quantities of construction materials and automated systems, aimed at rapidly building fortifications and laying the foundation for Tatooine's reconstruction.
The desert world, located in the Galactic Southeast, was a strategic hub—perfect for garrisons and shipyard deployment.
As the fleet entered synchronous orbit, the first wave of transports detached.
Trailing plasma exhaust like arrows of vengeance, they dove toward the surface. Behind them, additional dropships prepared to deploy heavy equipment.
The twin suns cast elongated shadows of these crafts upon the desert, stretching like golden eagles hunting prey.
These young soldiers returned to their homeland—this time not as slaves, but armed with the weapons of the Empire.
In the burning winds of the desert, they would end their nightmares with their own hands and bear witness to how the iron fist of the Empire forged new order from ruin.
Dorn stood at the prow of the bridge like a war-sculpted figurehead.
He watched the planet in silence, its sandstorms swirling like ancient curses. The ship's lighting added a cold gleam to the hard angles of his face.
Suddenly, particles of ghostly blue light began swirling behind him, coalescing like a reversed river of stars.
The particles solidified into a high-resolution hologram—Sigismund, detailed down to every battle scar on his armor.
The moment the projection finished rendering, the battle-hardened warrior dropped to one knee with a clang of ceramite joints.
"Father, the full situational report of Tatooine has been uploaded to your tactical terminal," Sigismund's voice came through the channel—more respectful than usual.
The first among Dorn's sons bowed his head. His helmet, crowned with a laurel of victory, was tucked under his arm, revealing his resolute face.
"Rise," Dorn nodded.
Sigismund stood slowly. The hardlight projection captured every scrape and dent on his armor with lifelike clarity.
Dorn turned and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
The gesture made Sigismund's pupils tighten slightly. Among the Imperial Fists, this was the highest form of acknowledgment a Primarch could bestow.
"These past days have been hard on you."
Dorn rarely expressed emotion. Yet here, a flicker of guilt crossed his stern features.
He could feel, even through the simulation, the worn armor and the battle it represented.
The numbers told the brutal truth—
From a full strength of 1,200 Astartes, Sigismund's elite force now had fewer than 300. Worse, most of the fallen were hardened veterans with years of combat experience.
Dorn had trusted his son's strategic brilliance to hold against overwhelming odds. But no one had expected the fallen Darth Vader to bring hundreds of Chaos ships in a sudden blitz.
Sigismund straightened, offering a rare smile. The warrior who struck fear into enemies now stood with unwavering conviction.
"This is the honor of the Imperial Fists, Father. Every fallen brother upheld his oath. The Emperor will guide their souls to peace."
He struck his chestplate, producing a sharp metallic clang.
"We held the line. We endured. Reinforcements came. There is no need for guilt."
Outside the window, dropships streaked toward the surface.
Dorn lowered his hand, his gaze steeling.
"Once the situation stabilizes, I will personally oversee your unit's restoration."
He turned to the holomap. Tatooine's orbital defenses spun slowly on the display.
"Not just reinforcements—you will receive top-tier gear and ships, first among all battalions."
"My thanks, Father."
Sigismund accepted with pride.
The projection shimmered and faded, the final blue particles returning to the bridge's display system.
Dorn turned back to his data slate, not realizing the shoulder clap he'd just given mirrored the very one his father once gave him.
Unconsciously, he had begun treating his sons with the same paternal reverence once shown to him.
"Ready the Thunderhawk squadron."
He issued the command calmly.
Twelve Honor Guard Terminators stepped from the shadows—silent sentinels in matte black armor, aligning beside Dorn to escort him to the hangar.
At the same time, in a lower launch bay—
A transport ship disguised to blend with local vessels stood prepped for launch.
Its hull had been weathered intentionally. Scuffed paint, ambiguous insignias. But inside, it held the Empire's most advanced stealth systems, warp and hyperspace drives.
David was finalizing the nav route at the helm. Beside him, Lucy calibrated the comms gear.
In the lounge, Leon sat casually, fingers tapping the grip of his sidearm.
Chirrut meditated with closed eyes, hands gently resting on his lightsaber's hilt. Baze diligently polished his blaster cannon.
The vessel—Rui Zhou—waited silently on the magnetic launch rails, its hundred-meter frame aglow under the hangar lights.
Internally, it was masterfully optimized—
Complete atmosphere and hydroponics systems in the living quarters. Racks of weaponry and ammo in the armory. Storage bays stacked with supplies to support thirty personnel for eighteen months of operations.
This would be their primary craft for covert diplomacy, recon, and infiltration.
David's cybernetic fingers interfaced with the console, checking every parameter.
Shields were primed—capable of tanking medium ion cannon hits. Concealed turrets were calibrated and combat-ready.
Lucy cross-referenced the plotted route with the Empire's latest security updates.
"All systems green."
David shut down diagnostics, looking up at the ceiling cam.
The control tower's green light flickered. A mechanical voice responded, "Launch zone clear. Magnetic rail primed."
The vessel surged forward with barely a tremble.
As they passed the plasma seal and protective shields, the light of Tatooine's twin suns flooded through the windows.
David nudged the controls. The Rui Zhou's sub-thrusters fired, gracefully joining the dense traffic lanes in low orbit.
Above them, a wedge formation of three black Thunderhawks departed from the Emperor-class hangar.
The center craft—carrying Dorn and his twelve Honor Guards—shared the same destination: Sigismund's ground base.
Leon's team would rendezvous with the Spartans and select several young super-soldiers to accompany them to Kamino.
Dorn, meanwhile, would visit his sons and retrieve his brother, returning him to the flagship for medical care.
Soon—
Tatooine's twin suns hung high, scorching the canyon air.
On the ground, the base's landing pads thrummed with life.
Transports buzzed like bees—hauling supplies, unloading construction mechs, shuttling engineers and tools.
The Rui Zhou initiated final descent, its jets scattering sand in radiant ripples.
With a hiss, it settled on the marked pad. Ramps and hatches extended slowly.
Waiting outside were over 80 assembled Spartans.
As Leon stepped through the hatch, John-117 raised his arm in salute.
"Sir. Spartan-117. An honor to meet you."
With that, every Spartan saluted in perfect unison.
To these young elites, Leon S. Kennedy wasn't just a name—he was legend.
His feats weren't just stories in the Inquisition. Even the Spartans had heard them.
So when Halsey told them that some among them would accompany the legendary agent on missions across this galaxy, they couldn't hide their excitement.
Before his arrival, some had obsessively polished their already gleaming armor. Others nervously fingered their ID tags.
For them, following Agent Kennedy was like stepping into a living adventure novel.
To infiltrate, disguise, gather intel—what might be routine to the Inquisition, shimmered with a romantic brilliance in the minds of these young warriors.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Mutter"]
[Every 50 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]
[Use Code D8986 for 33% Off on All Tiers — Valid Until October 5th]