Nodding slightly toward Artanis, signaling for him to take over, Zeratul turned his head toward Jim Raynor. Zzzzt—
The sharp, crackling sound of the Warp Blade's energy current echoed through the silent, hollow interior of the Leviathan. The bright green glow of psionic energy reflected in Zeratul's gleaming eyes.
"Zeratul, have you lost your mind?!" Jim Raynor shouted in disbelief.
Though his shoulder armor and cloak had long since been shredded to tatters after clashing with the Black Templar Terminators and Hak Foo, and his purple skin was smeared with pus and blood—some parts even marked by the crushed remains of shattered bone fragments from blunt trauma—it was all his own blood. Judging by the traces, there was no mistaking it. Those bone shards stuck to his limbs were the remnants of his own skeleton, forced outward by impact.
Yet somehow, his wounds seemed to regenerate. The flesh that should have lost all structural support healed flawlessly, pushing out the bone fragments as new skin knit itself over.
Battered, bloodied, and broken—but completely unharmed.
Jim Raynor couldn't help but feel it.
Zeratul had become stronger.
His sharp mind raced through countless possibilities, but they all pointed to a single answer.
This was Selene's work.
"I am not insane, Brother Raynor. I know what you are thinking—but I am not being controlled. My mind has never been clearer. I know exactly what I am doing."
Beyond the gaping breach in the Leviathan, the dazzling glow of plasma exhaust illuminated half of Zeratul's face. The flickering light stretched his shadow long across the floor until it reached Jim Raynor's boots.
"We fought side by side, and just as I know you, you know me. Escape from the Koprulu Sector? Seeking some hidden paradise to live out your days in peace? Or perhaps hiding away to rebuild, just as your Raiders once resisted Arcturus' Terran Dominion—a band of so-called 'freedom fighters' rebelling against tyranny?"
"I swore—"
"Save it, Brother Raynor. I know your kind. Your vows hold as much weight as the treaties of your species' past—none at all. You're a good bastard. If your old comrades come to you in this new order, disillusioned and desperate, they'll find you. And when they do, you won't be able to turn them away, will you?"
Zeratul's voice was cold and brittle, like dry leaves rustling underfoot. Beneath his even tone lay a rhythm—a pulse—that revealed the certainty of his resolve.
Jim Raynor's nature was predictable. Perhaps he could stay obedient for a while, discerning right from wrong. But sentimentality had always been his flaw.
Old comrades would come seeking his aid. And given that the Sacred Selene Empire's rule was, in some ways, harsh and uneven—even its death sentences ranked by absurd hierarchies—it would only be a matter of time.
Through Artanis's shared thoughts, Zeratul already understood what had transpired in the reclamation of Aiur.
Selene's nature was… merciful, yet merciless. Divine, yet ruthless. And men like Jim Raynor—those who would dare to defy such an order—would only meet one end: death.
Jim Raynor said nothing. But his silence was answer enough.
Zeratul slowly raised his shining Warp Blade, pointing it directly at Raynor.
"That is why I cannot allow you to walk the path of ruin. I will not stand by and watch you drag others down with you. You must understand—none of us can escape. None! This entire universe shares the same fate. The Goddess' judgment will come swiftly… and absolutely!"
An overwhelming surge of void energy burst forth from Zeratul's body. He extended both hands, massive arcs of energy coursing from his palms, crawling along the Leviathan's organic walls, slicing through them. Chunks of dead tissue and cell mass began to lift and drift into the air.
"Fuck you! When your so-called Xel'Naga gods were gone, Arcturus oppressed us! Now that he's dead, your so-called Xel'Naga gods want to oppress us again! What's the difference between them and Arcturus?!"
Zeratul's words struck something deep within Jim Raynor. He yanked Kerrigan behind him, roaring with fury.
"When I raised the Raiders in rebellion, what was it for?! Everyone put their lives and hopes in my hands because they were sick of Arcturus' tyranny!"
"And now, an empire even more brutal and despotic is taking his place! And I've sold out the Raiders—for what? To buy my own life, and Sarah's? What kind of man does that make me?! I refuse! I won't accept it! I won't bow! And what—what if I just leave? What if my old comrades come to me for help? What am I supposed to do then?!"
Zeratul spoke calmly, his tone like cold stone scraping across steel. "Then the right choice, Brother Raynor, will be to kill them—or hand them over. The Xel'Naga will replace the Terran Dominion. God's dominion will be more absolute… more complete than anything you have ever known."
He paused for a moment. "And far more tyrannical than you can imagine."
"So I should become a whipped dog—turn in my old friends, and grovel before your so-called gods?! Tell me, Zeratul! What should I do?!"
Jim Raynor's voice broke into a hoarse, furious scream. He vented years of bitterness and rage.
On the Inquisitor's ship, the arrogance of the Black Templar soldiers, the stench of the Inquisitors themselves—it had all made him sick. But he had endured it. He had bowed his head. Because if he hadn't, if he hadn't convinced the Raiders to surrender, the Empire would have slaughtered them all.
He had buried his pride, buried his rage.
But to hear these words now—from the same brother-in-arms he had once trusted, the clever, noble, compassionate Prelate Zeratul—now a zealot with fire in his eyes—it was too much to bear.
"Jim…" Kerrigan's hand tightened around his. She said nothing more.
"Brother Raynor, the age has changed. Let go of your delusions. You and I—we are but dust in the wind."
Expressionless, unmoved, Zeratul's voice carried neither malice nor emotion. His focus was absolute.
...
Aboard the flagship Meteor Devastation—the grand palace-like command ship of the 2nd Expeditionary Fleet of the Black Legion.
"How interesting. The Protoss… call in one of their elders to guide them."
Brilliant light drove away the chill that came from the vast, open space of the upper bridge. Beyond the gilded doors, in the inner courtyard of the flagship, a silver-haired empress draped in a luxurious white cloak lounged lazily by an ornate pond.
Truly fitting for the Third Legion.
Even Hak Foo, that brute, had a palace like this aboard his flagship—though he never once used it.
Crackle—
Energy arced between Selene's delicate fingers, threads of light dancing around her like electric sparks. They flickered over the fine wooden table beside her, illuminating books and trinkets—but harming none of them. With a flick of her right hand, countless thin blue filaments burst into the air, weaving through the space like veins of light—the Protoss' Khala network itself.
Amon had been consumed by her, after all. Naturally, his remnants fell into her hands.
Amusingly enough, after she had descended in the form of the Khala and purged Aiur of every Zerg—scouring even their trace—before Selene could even speak, the Protoss had already knelt, swearing loyalty.
It made sense.
The Protoss, self-proclaimed "Firstborn of the Gods," had chosen to submit to the true and rightful Xel'Naga—the legitimate divine lineage, not the corrupted abomination Amon had become.
There was no shame in that.
Their creator had returned—terrifying and radiant. Submission was the natural choice.
Selene was pleased with their obedience. Her efforts to inherit the name of the last Xel'Naga, Ouros, had paid off. A true, orthodox Xel'Naga—unlike the fallen mockery that was Amon.
She now held sovereignty over the infinite cycles of the void—the rightful claim to all Xel'Naga universes.
A lovely bit of gilding, really. Proof of her legitimacy. And the Protoss' willingness to bow proved it beyond doubt.
The tiger bares its fangs; the kings bow in awe.
Likewise, the same held true for the countless universes connected through the Void. Any lifeform born from the Xel'Naga's seeded essence—any civilization that had evolved from that divine spark—would, upon encountering Selene, feel the instinctive pull of creation itself. Their very life source resonated with hers, compelling them to gather beneath her banner.
The bond between the Xel'Naga and their creations—it could be compared, perhaps, to that of a certain 40K Primarch and his gene-sons. Not enforced, but inherently binding. They required no coercion to accept her rule; it was in their nature to do so.
Selene had then assigned the Protoss a set of imperial directives, including but not limited to: reunifying their fractured tribes, rebuilding Aiur in the image of Imperial values (while preserving local cultural identity), restoring production, rediscovering and developing their lost Golden Age technologies, and ensuring population growth.
To assist them, Selene poured into the Khala network an entire library of Imperial texts: From Beginner to Mastery: The Common Imperial Language, The Constitution of the Sacred Selene Empire, Imperial Penal Code, Military Merit and Title Ordinance, and Auxiliary and Vassal Forces Regulations.
If it hadn't been for the Dark Templar having severed the neural cords that connected them to the Khala, there would have been far fewer misunderstandings. Zeratul wouldn't have needed to rely on clumsy mental sharing.
Had he received Selene's Khala messages directly, all he would have had to do was shout, "For Selene!" in perfect Imperial Standard—and he might have avoided getting beaten half to death by Hak Foo.
When Selene had uploaded the data into the Khala, every Protoss still connected to the network instantly absorbed her knowledge.
But the Dark Templar, bound by tradition, severed those cords during their initiation rituals, leaving only a short strand tied in a small ponytail at the back of the head. By doing so, they permanently exiled themselves from the Khala. A brave and irreversible act.
As Selene's thoughts drifted through the vast Khala mind-web, she found the Protoss fascinating—like cats. Not only in grace and beauty, but in their philosophy of power, and in their endless curiosity about the origins of the universe and the nature of existence itself.
Many of their mental voices discussed her directly, and Selene, entirely without shame, listened in.
Some said: The Xel'Naga's return from the Void is a blessing upon the mortal realm.
"Good boy," Selene mused. "Enlightened."
Others reflected: Perhaps the Xel'Naga's actions serve as a warning. We, the Firstborn, failed our duty in the endless cycle of non-interference. We lost Aiur, brought chaos upon the cosmos. It is our shame to bear.
"Promising. Very promising."
Another said: We must work tirelessly. We disappointed our God once. With the end of non-interference, we must never repeat our mistakes. The divine directive must be fulfilled.
"Ah, a pillar of the future Empire."
Some were simply curious: What will life be like under divine rule?
"Adorable."
Then there were the skeptics. Should the Xel'Naga not return to the Void? The last time they intervened, it was the Dark God Amon who wrought our ruin.
"Hmm?" Selene's eyes narrowed. "You've chosen the wrong path, little one."
"I didn't alter their minds, did I?" she muttered. "Perhaps… just a small adjustment. A touch of inspiration. Zeratul, my dear…"
With a flicker of thought, Selene tuned in to the impassioned preaching of Zeratul, now transformed into a zealous disciple, lecturing the freedom fighter Jim Raynor.
"Weren't the Dark Templar supposed to be the independent ones?" Selene mused. "They rejected the Khala, they valued individuality, defied authority—and now look at him."
She chuckled softly.
Initially, her approach toward the Dark Templar had been simple: either exterminate them or brand them with the Mental Seal. Rescuing them had been an afterthought—only because Artanis, the High Templar who had led Aiur's surrender, had humbly petitioned her to save his friend. And, being merciful, how could Selene refuse?
But Zeratul's newfound fanaticism—that, she hadn't expected. Could it be… her charm?
Ultimately, Selene concluded that it was likely a mix of both his personal experiences and, of course, her own irresistible charisma.
"Yes," she decided with a self-satisfied nod. "Clearly, I can't stay cooped up in the palace any longer. Time for a royal inspection."
Indeed, governing duties could always be delegated to Sebas for now.
"Hmm… perhaps I should establish a High Lords Council?" she mused. "Or maybe summon Robert back from the frontlines?"
All in the name of a well-earned break, Selene schemed tirelessly—even her own excuses amused her.
"Your Majesty, communication request incoming from Sangheili Fleet Admiral Xitan'Ja Vadinee of the Imperial Navy," the ship's gentle AI voice reported.
"Patch it through," Selene said lazily.
Click—Crackle—
—
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