The Rui Zhou pierced the last layers of Tatooine's atmosphere, its hull vibrating gently as it completed its final ascent.
As the main engines throttled down, the hyperspace drive began to hum with its distinctive resonance. Energy surged within the circular accelerators.
SHWOOM—!!
In an instant, the starlit stillness outside the observation window shattered like glass, morphing into a rushing current of blue light. The ship's hull trembled more intensely; tools rattled softly on their shelves. The Rui Zhou had entered hyperspace, bound for the homeworld of the Kaminoans.
Inside Compartment B, the armory, Malon gripped either side of his helmet and twisted sharply upward.
Hiss... The hiss of the pressure seals releasing echoed as the helmet came off, revealing his square-shaped face—still tinged with boyishness. He casually dropped the heavy helmet onto a nearby bench. The metal rang clearly through the chamber.
"Phew—finally, some fresh air."
Malon rolled his stiff neck, vertebrae cracking audibly.
Running calloused fingers over the battle-scarred chestplate, he grinned at Douglas. "These are badges of honor. Gotta keep them. All part of the story."
Douglas, in contrast, removed his gear with disciplined precision. He disengaged the helmet lock with a practiced motion and set it down without a sound.
His angular face bore a quiet gravitas, with a scar above the left brow adding a rugged weight to his expression—unmistakably reliable.
"Keep it, sure," Douglas replied in his deep voice, "But it needs a full diagnostic first."
He rapped his knuckles against the worn power pack on Malon's back. "That system hasn't had proper maintenance since the Chaos breach."
At the center of the armory, Ko'r stood on an automated fitting platform. Multiple mechanical arms detached the components of her sniper-class MJOLNIR suit with smooth efficiency.
As the last pauldron was removed, her sculpted, muscular frame came into view. The black nano-fabric undersuit clung tightly, highlighting her athletic curves. Under the overhead lighting, her silver hair glinted faintly.
"System diagnostic initiated," droned the AI in its synthetic voice, beginning a scan of the detached armor.
Ko'r stood calmly nearby, her amber eyes scanning every detail like an enhanced sensor.
When one of the robotic arms reached the left arm module, she raised a hand. "Pause."
She pointed at a misaligned energy conduit.
"This node needs recalibration."
The scanner's red beam focused where she indicated. After confirmation, the AI responded, "Error code E-427. Initiating repair protocol."
Malon let out a whistle, smirking. "Did she just diagnose that by eye?"
Douglas didn't respond. He simply began inspecting his own armor in silence.
Nearby, Jerome had already stripped down to his black undersuit and sat before a terminal in the corner. The blue light of the holo-projection etched fine lines across his stern features.
Navigation data and mission briefs refreshed across the interface, and his fingers occasionally tapped virtual keys.
"ETA to Kamino: 48 hours," he stated calmly, still scanning the data. "Keep your armor systems on standby. No extra training required during transit."
He finally looked up, gaze settling on Malon through the holographic glow.
"Especially you, 1337. Your 'luck' is practically a legend among Spartans. I don't want this Inquisition-disguised ship attracting trouble because of your curiosity."
Malon, now crouched beside his armor, stood up with exaggerated innocence, spreading his arms wide.
"Swear on the stars! I just wanted to check out the mess hall. I heard the Inquisition gets top-tier rations."
Alice, adjusting the optical camouflage module on her armor, chuckled softly at that. Her short hair swayed as she shook her head.
"Last time you said 'just a peek,' you trashed half the Imperial Fists' gym. And Sigismund didn't even make you pay for it. Halsey almost had to remortgage her lab."
At that moment, the armory's automatic doors opened.
Leon stepped in, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
The rich aroma immediately clashed with the room's sterile, mechanical scent.
The agent's eyes swept over the Spartans and their neatly arranged gear. At the sight of their discipline and order, he gave a subtle nod.
"Keep it like this," he said, sipping his coffee. "Kamino's Prime Minister has confirmed our appointment. A delegation will receive us."
He scanned their faces, making eye contact briefly with each of them.
"No need for heightened alert. Just maintain standard security protocol."
Malon strode up, casting a towering shadow across Leon.
"Sir," he asked with curiosity, "Is it true Kaminoans can clone soldiers even better than what our Empire has now?"
Leon didn't answer immediately.
He took another sip, letting the flavor settle before speaking. He noted how—even though they all seemed focused on their tasks—every Spartan was clearly listening.
"Theoretically, yes. Their technology has that potential."
Then he looked straight at Malon.
"Which is why you're here, fully equipped—for them to see firsthand what perfection looks like. Not a mass-produced copy, but a warrior forged through fire and steel."
The armory fell silent.
Douglas's fingers traced over his battle-dented chestplate. Ko'r's gaze rested on her modified sniper module. Even Malon, usually irreverent, grew quiet. His eyes gleamed with conviction.
"We won't disappoint the Empire," Jerome said first, his voice low but firm.
Alice finished calibrating her last module and added quietly, "Forged in fire… fitting phrase."
Leon nodded approvingly. "You're free to move about until we exit hyperspace."
He raised the now-empty mug. "I suggest fueling up. Even if cooked by servitor chefs, the food here beats anything Kamino has to offer."
With that, he turned and left, the armory doors sealing shut behind him.
"Finally!" Malon leapt up, nearly hitting the ceiling. "C'mon, Douglas! I'm starving—I could eat a whole bantha!"
Douglas sighed and followed after the exuberant Spartan.
As they passed through the corridors, Malon stared at everything like it was his first time on a ship.
"Look at that!" He pointed at a wall fixture. "Is that a new fire suppression system?"
"If you touch that," Douglas said calmly, "I'll shove you into the waste recycler."
—
Meanwhile—
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Meditation Hall, casting dappled light before the Golden Throne.
Samuel Young sat tall, clad in a black robe lined with subtle golden filigree.
Dorn's hologram knelt before him, the blue projection reflecting off the gilded steps. In his arms, Ferrus slept soundly, nestled in his swaddle, one tiny hand clinging to Dorn's cloak.
".That is all, Father." Dorn's deep voice echoed. "Reconstruction on Tatooine and surrounding sectors is underway. Primary defense nodes are scheduled for completion within three months."
Samuel tapped the throne's armrest. The metal gave a deep, echoing clang.
His gaze settled on the infant.
Ferrus's eyelids fluttered faintly, a ripple of innate psychic energy brushing the air—gentle as ripples across a still lake.
"Excellent," the Emperor's voice echoed like distant mountains. "Continue as planned. Full integration of that universe must be completed as swiftly as possible."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And your brother?"
Dorn answered at once. "The Honor Guard is ready. In three Terran days, he will be escorted through the Warp Gate back to the main universe."
"Go."
Samuel reclined, shadows once more cloaking his features.
Dorn's projection bowed deeply, dissolving into cascading motes of blue light as the hologram deactivated.
The hall fell silent—only the crackle of the Eternal Flame could be heard under the vaulted ceiling.
The Emperor's gaze turned to the sky beyond the palace spires.
In his visions, the threads of the Star Wars universe's fate were tightening.
Angron and the World Eaters were en route. The Chaos cultists and World Eater traitors would soon be torn apart.
Soon, Athena, Hera, Níðhöggr, the Ironwing Legion, and over 40,000 Battle Sisters and Knights would join with the mixed strike fleet of the Word Bearers, Night Lords, and Grey Knights.
By every metric, Chaos resistance would collapse within three years.
Light outside strengthened. Shadows stretched long behind the Golden Throne. Every piece was now on the board. All that remained… was time.
And yet…
Samuel frowned, casting his psychic sight across dimensions.
Even from afar, the emotional ripples of Athena and Hera reached him—subtle, but undeniable.
The former bore restraint.
The latter… obsession.
This resonance made his decision clear: Ferrus must be retrieved.
The Eternal Flame flickered.
As the arbiter of mankind's destiny, Samuel was bound by no mortal ethics—but political optics could not be ignored.
Athena could be a foster mother to a Primarch. Hera could not.
The faded golden diadem atop Hera's head was still a symbol of her former title—Queen of the Gods. A title now tainted.
And her fallen consort, Zeus—now a twisted Chaos puppet—was, to Samuel, neither worthy of respect nor comparison.
Sunlight danced across the floor, catching the carved inscription at the throne's base:
"For Humanity."
Samuel never cared for rumors. But the psychological impact of each foster mother, both on the Primarch and the citizenry, could not be ignored.
Letting the ex-wife of a fallen Chaos god raise a son of the Emperor?
It would spark a psychic storm across the Warp.
To him, Hera was merely a magical tool—nothing more.
Athena, however, needed no propaganda cleanup. She had fought Chaos for millennia. Her image, honor, and strength made her ideal for this task.
But not yet.
Ferrus must be brought home—to Terra—where Samuel and Alexia would raise him.
—
Forty-eight hours later.
As the Rui Zhou dropped from hyperspace, the view outside the observation windows took their breath away.
Kamino hovered in the dark like a sapphire orb drenched in rain.
Its boundless ocean reflected starlight like mercury. Sensors confirmed: 98.7% ocean coverage, with artificial structures scattered like pearls amid the waves.
As they descended through stormclouds, the capital city of Tipoca emerged from the mist.
Hundreds of concentric platforms floated upon the sea, with the central spire—home of the Prime Minister—gleaming faintly beneath the clouds.
Radial bridges extended from the core. Countless transports darted along their paths like ants. The city resembled a massive, living machine.
"Atmosphere confirmed breathable," David's voice came from the cockpit. "Humidity at 93%. Recommend environment adaptors."
The ship shook slightly as it pierced the storm front.
Rain hammered the hull like a barrage of silver needles, only to be shredded by high-speed slipstreams.
As they dropped lower, the landing platform came into view.
A massive semicircular pad, roughly 500 meters wide, rimmed with glowing blue guide lights. The surface was lined with anti-slip etchings.
Twenty Kaminoans stood in perfect formation, their tall, slender frames prominent in the rain.
All wore tailored waterproof uniforms. Their pearl-pale skin shimmered faintly. Elongated heads inclined slightly, projecting their species' signature elegance and detachment.
As the landing gear touched down, the dampeners gave a soft hiss.
The hatch opened.
A briny gust swept into the bay—carrying the scent of deep oceans and distant storms.
Leon was reminded of a stormy seaside night on Earth. But here, there were no beaches—only the endless sea.
The figure at the front of the welcome party stepped forward. Her silver-gray robe remained utterly motionless in the wind.
Raising one elongated finger, the Kaminoan spoke. Her voice was like sonar from the depths—clear, but alien.
"Welcome to Kamino. We look forward to meeting with the representatives of the Human Empire."
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Mutter"]
[Every 50 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]