Korhal IV.
At this moment, resistance on Korhal had ended. At least, on the surface it had.
These transhuman devils, their helms removed to reveal faces as cold and sharp as marble statues, displayed the brutality beneath their aristocratic poise.
Forget about rebels—even those who dared to negotiate terms were singled out by the Black Templars and exterminated to the last.
Killing alone was not enough. They rooted out entire families.
With Korhal's registry system, entire bloodlines were purged. Political dynasties, military noble houses—wiped out to the last. For individual resisters, every blood relative within nine generations was dragged to the gallows.
Executions were held before prisoners of war, broadcast across the world—beheadings, hangings, dismemberments… oh, and chemical euthanasia.
For women and children, unless caught fighting or killed by stray fire, they were granted the mercy of painless euthanasia. This was the Black Templars' version of chivalry.
They were not Midnight Lords; they did not indulge in sadistic torture or grotesque cruelty. But even so, to the noble councilors of Korhal, such severity was terrifying. More dreadful than Arcturus's dictatorship, sending chills through the survivors.
"Look—that was Senator Thomson's family. Thomson was a good man. He pushed through the bill allowing Korhal to take in us Tassadar refugees who lost our homeworld. And just for demanding fair treatment, his whole line was executed… sigh."
So spoke a refugee from the Augustgrad district.
"And Old Edwin… he was a founding 'Son of Korhal.' Finally retired, after bleeding half his life for the Mengsk dynasty. Valerian himself has already declared unconditional surrender. Why did he resist to the end? To bury his whole family with him—was it worth it?"
A marine stripped of his CMC-300 armor watched the axe fall on the execution platform, the old man's white-haired head tumbling into the basket.
He remembered well—during boot camp, it was that very veteran who had trained them, whip and cane in hand, always bragging of the Sons of Korhal, always boasting of their struggle and revenge against the Confederacy. Always with a bottle in hand, telling the same old story.
"Because we are not him… To him, the Terran Dominion was his life's work. His blood and sweat. Now that his home is torn down, his life's work trampled, that stubborn old man must have felt he had lost everything."
"And what do you think our days will look like from here?"
"…Who knows. We'll just have to go with it…"
...
At the corner of Augustgrad's Imperial Palace Square, Valerian fulfilled his duty. Yet the accusing whispers of the old men left his handsome, almost delicate face shadowed with unease.
"Valerian? It really is you. So they dragged you back too, these devils in armor… you look like you're in mourning. Relax. For all their killing, they won't touch you."
The familiar female voice pulled him back. He turned. The gray bodysuit of a Ghost operative, a sharp golden ponytail, and playful green eyes met his gaze.
"Nova Terra."
This woman had never respected him for being crown prince. Not long ago, under Arcturus's orders, she had been tasked with capturing Jim Raynor—and had shown him no mercy. She hadn't killed him, but she had left him utterly humiliated. A vicious, unrestrained agent, infamous even among the Ghosts.
"Eh? Don't get nervous. I'm not here to cause trouble. We're all prisoners now. Relax. If things turn violent, neither of us is getting out."
Seeing his guards tense, Nova raised her hands in mock surrender, a careless grin on her face.
"I came to ask one question. In your proclamation of surrender to the Sacred Selene Empire—who was it you negotiated with? Their emperor? Or a theater commander…?"
Still watching the executions, never turning his head, Valerian answered curtly: "The Empress."
"Then tell me—what kind of empress are we dealing with?"
Nova's eyes gleamed with curiosity as she stepped lightly toward him. His guards bristled, but she stopped five paces away, folding her arms as though she had all the time in the world.
Valerian opened his mouth. The words not human rose to his lips—but he swallowed them. It would sound like an insult. And besides, what if she was watching him even now? He finally muttered: "…Hard to say."
"Hard to say?"
Nova tilted her head, more intrigued than before. She wanted to know what kind of being their new ruler truly was.
Before she could press further—thoom, thoom!
"My Empress!"
The noise made her snap her gaze to the square. The violet-gold armored warriors dropped as one to a knee, striking their chests with a thunderous clang, fists pressed to hearts, shouting in unison toward the heavens and the Zerg battlefield beyond.
Then she realized—every auxiliary soldier too had fallen to one knee. Even the men running the prison camps collapsed fully prostrate. Across the imperial plaza of Augustgrad, more than a hundred thousand Imperial troops bowed as if a hurricane had flattened them.
"Your Majesty!"
"God-Emperor!"
"Divine Empress!"
...
All of Augustgrad seemed filled with a single will. Beneath the double-headed eagle banners, the cry rolled out from the Imperial landing zones across Korhal, joining into a single chorus. East to west, north to south—millions of voices, earthshaking, as if the stars themselves echoed their devotion.
Different tongues, different dialects—Imperial Gothic, colonial vernaculars, even local slang—but all bore the same weight: fear, awe, worship, fervor.
With it came a dazzling purple-red radiance bursting across the Korhal system.
Crack-crack-crack—!
Starlight vanished. A dreadful power shook the barrier between realspace and the Void, straining to break through.
In the void, the black curtain of space was drowned by ominous violet-red flames. One by one, the stars of Korhal and nearby systems burned scarlet, transformed into molten chains lashing heaven and earth together.
The air stank of despair.
Vrrrmm—!
Even time and space quaked. A cyclone of galaxies spun, swirling into a singularity. Across the veil of reality, waves of violet psionics surged, scattering blinding lances of golden light.
"Look! What is that…?"
Everyone saw it. Every colonist in the system, every prisoner on Korhal. Shouts and screams rippled across the world.
The air itself seemed to harden into stone.
And fear was contagious. First the Imperial troops shouted. Then, the pale-faced Korhal civilians, crushed by the weight of the aura, crumbled as well—some bowing low, some collapsing outright.
This was an authority none of them had ever known.
"What… what is this?"
For Nova, once the most gifted Ghost of her generation, it was unbearable. One glance—and she felt purple fire-snakes crawl through her psionics, writhing across her brain, searing every nerve.
Every second she looked, her senses twisted into new sights and sounds. Insanity, chaos, hallucinations bled into the world around her.
Some parts of space went utterly dark—absolute, frozen, zero. Others flared into indescribable colors, nauseating to behold.
And at the farthest depths of that thick, choking darkness, she saw them: towering, monstrous silhouettes. Billions upon billions of Honkai Beasts and Imaginary constructs stirred in the abyss beyond reality's edge, straining to flood through.
"Xel'Naga…"
Eyes like stormclouds trembled. Valerian staggered, steadying himself against the palace wall. "A true Xel'Naga…! Yes! I was not wrong! I saved Korhal, I saved humanity!"
His surrender had crippled his prestige among the old "Sons of Korhal." Many elders had chosen to resist, and some accused him of betraying them—surrendering too easily, failing to win better terms. In their eyes, he had sold them out.
The thought tormented him. He was still young, far from his father's cold steel. His surrender was indefensible. He needed a pillar, a justification. The stronger the enemy, the wiser his choice appeared.
"I was not wrong!" Valerian screamed.
...
As for the uproar her arrival had sparked on Korhal IV, Selene cared little.
The Terrans' rebellion was nothing more than a trifle.
Every Imperial world went through such unrest. During the early phase of consolidation, resistance and insurgency were inevitable. Across the Imperium, daily reports of rebellion numbered in the astronomical. To outsiders, it might seem the Empire was on the brink of collapse. It never was.
Compared to the Terrans, Selene found the so-called Chosen of Destiny far more interesting.
"Black Templars. Cease your assault."
Riiip—!
The shaking of space-time grew more violent. The starry sky itself rippled like an oil painting floating on shallow water. And in the ripples—tap… tap…
Footsteps.
In soundless void, they still rang clear.
A shadow stirred from the abyss, wreathed in crimson mist, violet light, golden halos radiating like fractured starlight. Contradictory, grotesque, yet seamless. The silhouette merged with the void itself.
Vast beyond measure.
She needed no torches, for she was the sun. Her visage, burning with eternal flame, eclipsed whole constellations. Her brilliance was that of every star in the universe, crushed together into one.
Selene's visage.
She spared no thought for the Zerg's howls or the varied reactions of her warriors. Her radiant eyes locked upon the three within the Leviathan, like the dawn breaking eternal night.
An unseen force snuffed out the Leviathan, its colossal form crumbling to death. One scarlet-haired nuisance—dismissed with a flick of her finger, banished like a candle in a storm. She would not abide distractions.
"Xel'Naga…"
Twisting like a rotten fruit, Zeratul's broken body shuddered. He glimpsed the scene beyond, strangely unharmed despite being cast into the void. With the Xel'Naga, nothing was impossible.
Memories of that day at the ruins blazed within him.
It was not Amon!
That familiar aura—he could not mistake it. The presence of a saint, the guide who had spoken to him. Trembling, Zeratul realized:
A living, benevolent Xel'Naga!
For the first time in millennia, the Protoss felt again the dominance of their creators. They had loved—and hated. Loved the form and future gifted them, the golden age of their ancestors. Hated the absence that had led to the Aeon of Strife, to near extinction.
"My God…"
"Zeratul. The Fallen One Amon is dead. I destroyed him."
"The Protoss shall return to my hand."
Her voice, soft as butterfly wings yet commanding as thunder, floated across the void. It soothed even as it shattered. The message it carried was too immense to calm the heart.
"My God…" Zeratul gasped. He lifted his head to behold the astral goddess who cradled the Swarm in her palm—half in awe, half in confusion.
Had all his struggles been for nothing?
"Zeratul…"
A familiar voice, and a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned. Gilded armor, towering pauldrons—an Executor's regalia. His old friend.
"Artanis…" He began—but then realized his wounds were healed.
"What you sought is already within you, my friend. It is finished." Artanis smiled faintly, patting his shoulder. "You were right."
"Xel'Naga."
But unlike the Protoss, Sarah Kerrigan was no creation of theirs. With human defiance, the Queen of Blades lifted her scarred face, dark scales framing eyes of violet fire. Even knowing she could not win, her defiance amused Selene.
"Kill me if you wish. But I will not be your pawn!"
I like your defiance.
"Jim Raynor is in my hands."
Checkmate.
"..."
—
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