"Thinking back on it carefully… Kiana actually volunteered to join Budo's Punishers Legion in joint operations…"
"That was not a rational decision."
She made her judgment.
When Selene first saw the assignment notice for the redistribution of the Valkyrie units, she had been quite surprised.
The others had made fairly reasonable choices—each following their aptitudes, adjusting their mindsets, and adapting quickly to the fields they excelled in.
Only Kiana, stubborn as ever, had insisted on applying to join Budo's Astartes Second Legion—the Punishers.
And what kind of people were the Punishers?
It was like pairing two utterly incompatible personalities and expecting them to work together.
Vulkan's Salamanders, Sanguinius' Blood Angels, Robert's Ultramarines, Lorgar's Word Bearers—any of these would have suited her better than the Punishers.
If Kiana hadn't insisted on applying herself, the Imperial Military Administration would have normally decided her placement based on her daily training evaluations, academic performance, and her essays analyzing the tactics and campaigns of each Astartes Legion and military branch.
It was a matter of compatibility—of alignment and recognition.
According to the adjutant AI's unique algorithm, combined with the assessments of military officers, instructors, and training overseers, recruits were evaluated comprehensively. Their scores, personalities, and ideological inclinations were compared against the characteristics of each Imperial department.
From there, the best matches were chosen.
At the end of the process, the Military Administration would issue recommendation letters—positions or divisions considered most suitable for each candidate by their mentors, officers, or adjutants.
Of course, personal choice was also allowed. Recommendations were not mandates—the Empire imposed no strict limitations on self-determination.
Kiana's decision, however… clearly led her to the least suitable place for her.
By nature, Kiana was more inclined toward wars of conquest against non-human races. When it came to humans—or humanoid species—she displayed an unnecessary compassion. She had never once ordered an orbital bombardment, nor enacted an extermination directive, nor conducted a Section Eleven purge, nor carried out a citywide massacre.
Instead, she preferred the laborious and inefficient paths—communication, diplomacy, attempts at peaceful persuasion, relief for those suffering in war-torn zones, and small-scale shows of force.
Peaceful transitions of power did offer convenience and reduced chaos—but they also brought countless new complications.
From the Empire's internal administrative perspective, peacefully integrated worlds were no different from those conquered through force. In the end, once fully assimilated into the Imperial order, both became one and the same.
The only difference was that the latter required reconstruction aid and time for recovery.
And of course, rebellions from ambitious or resentful elements needed suppression. Yet ironically, peacefully annexed worlds often produced even more dissenters—those who had never experienced the agony of loss or the purging fire of war, emboldened to cause trouble in secret.
Which method was better? Hard to say.
The culture of the Sacred Selene Empire clearly favored erasing the old social orders of conquered worlds completely.
In a militarized legion like the Punishers, where violence and discipline were the law, the fact that Kiana remained a mere captain after so long was proof enough.
Just look at Durandal's meteoric rise.
There was no comparison.
Selene reached out to the holographic console, quickly browsing through the operational reports. "Tsk, tsk, tsk… interesting."
She crushed the file in her hand, rolling it into a ball and flicking it with her finger like a marble. It sailed into the holographic projection's recycling basket. Resting her chin on one hand, she fell into thought.
Budo actually spoke in Kiana's defense… He was beginning to sound more and more like a true strategic commander.
Let's see what these memorial reports have to say:
A request was made to Selene—not to be disappointed in Captain Kiana's slower progress and lesser achievements compared to standouts like Durandal… Kiana possessed potential, aptitude, and the drive to act upon them. Under the iron heel of the Empire's conquests, the colonies needed hope—a gentler light to guide them.
Reading between the lines, Selene couldn't help but chuckle dryly.
Fools.
All of them—what do they take me for?
Once again, let me emphasize: I am not cruel. I do not revel in slaughter, nor am I bloodthirsty!
What did they expect me to do—drag Kiana to the very colonies she worked so hard to peacefully annex, broadcast a tirade, crush her with imperial might, and then, in disappointment, reduce her peaceful conquests to ashes with orbital bombardment?
They've already joined the cause—providing troops, grain, and taxes. They've done their part for the Great Crusade!
"Very well… Once her term in the Punishers Legion ends, transfer Kiana to the Ultramarines. Let her study proper governance."
Compassion, not naivety. Kindness, not weakness.
"If she dislikes warfare, then let her learn how to be a proper princess… Heh, a princess without a crown. Continue your lessons, Kiana. Even benevolence requires strength."
Whooosh—
Leaving the command bridge of the Meteor Devastation, Selene walked gracefully through the corridor known as the Path of Audience. The grand avenue was paved with marble, its flanks lined with onyx pillars engraved in gold with the many victories of the Black Templars Legion.
Between the pillars stood statues of legionary heroes. The walls behind them, not obscured by the sculptures, were adorned with silk banners and framed oil portraits encased in gold.
"Your Majesty!" ×N
Along the way, regardless of rank or duty, crew members erupted in joyous cheers. The sheer honor of glimpsing their empress filled them with awe and zeal. One by one, they fell to their knees, prostrating themselves, their voices rising in hymns of devotion written by poets in praise of the Divine Empress.
Some among the Imperial auxiliaries—alien officers from thousands of colony worlds—pressed their foreheads to the floor, feeling the subtle tremor of Selene's footsteps on the marble and considering it a divine blessing.
Selene said nothing. She merely lifted her hand in a faint gesture of acknowledgment, her eyes calm and unreadable. Her silver hair shimmered faintly in the starlight pouring through the viewport, while her crimson eyes gazed out toward the Char system.
All resistance had been purged.
The corpse of a leviathan bioship was being hauled through the void by Imperial naval haulers. Between the stars, beyond the spatial rift carved open by the Zerg fleets, another—far larger—warp channel was slowly forming.
Bzzt!
From the strategic reserve fleet encircling the Char system, a detachment split off—a massive Apocalypse-class battleship belonging to the First Captain of the Black Templars' Second Great Company lit up with the unique banner signal of a company commander.
Under the command of a certain unnamed red-haired officer, a newly reorganized Imperial naval subfleet completed its temporary formation and advanced into the warp channel with fierce momentum.
Meanwhile…
On board the Meteor Devastation, flagship of the Second Great Company, the command interface updated—the Astartes Company Commander's signal vanished, replaced by that of the First Captain.
A tactical house-swap, so to speak.
The Black Templars were hardly surprised.
The "fake" company commander—Hak Foo. The real one—the veteran First Captain of the Second Great Company.
Zzzzt—
From the ship's broadcast, a weary voice was heard—Jim Raynor's.
"This is Jim Raynor. As you all know, that old bastard Arcturus and his dream of a Mengsk dynasty have both been thrown into the trash heap… The victory may not be ours, but folks—it's finally over."
"Everyone, a new order has been established. I don't know what the future holds, but… I like to think tomorrow will be a little brighter…"
"If you still believe in me, then now is the time to lay down those damned killing weapons!"
"The mission of the Raiders is over, folks—it's time to go home!"
On the holographic screen, a rugged man in a white T-shirt and a simple combat vest spoke with raw emotion, tears streaming down his face.
Some people can't be swayed by threats to their own lives—but if the lives of their friends and loved ones hang in the balance, or if heartfelt words come from a trusted companion… used correctly, such things can have a very different effect.
Selene lifted her chin slightly, deep in thought.
"Order Artanis and Zeratul to return to Char. I don't want another civil war or dissent among the Protoss on that world. Inform them that the Sangheili will be their instructors—they have much to learn."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The adjutant's cold, synthetic voice echoed through the hall.
As Selene continued her slow walk along the panoramic corridor, admiring the scarred depths of space left behind by the Battle of Char IV, she felt the subtle tremor of imaginary particles rippling through the air. Then, a soft, cheerful voice rang in her ear—a bright, girlish tone.
"Yayay~! Your Majesty, mission complete!"
"Ah, Jibril."
"Yes, Your Majesty! Samir Duran has been captured! Do you want him alive or dead? If you'd like, I can—"
"Not necessary."
Ignoring the pleading tone of the excitable Flügel girl begging for praise, Selene stifled a yawn. "Handle it however you wish—whether you preserve him as a specimen or tear him apart. Just make sure it's clean. Then rendezvous with Hak Foo and prepare for descent onto the United Earth Directorate."
"And don't misuse force. I don't want the Imperial army inheriting a wasteland."
Ah, Jibril… another brute. Or rather, a brutess.
Massaging her temples wearily, Selene sighed. "Why am I surrounded by so many reckless idiots?"
Forget it. Back to the capital. Time for some sleep.
...
Koprulu Sector — remote planetary belt, inside an abandoned secret military base once belonging to the Terran Confederacy.
After years of neglect, many areas had collapsed. Burst pipes, torn cables, and strange conduits lay exposed everywhere. Flickering red and green emergency lights cast erratic glows, while distant beastly growls echoed through the darkness—it felt like a dungeon born of silence and decay.
From orbit, the base looked as though it had been struck by an ultra-heavy penetrator missile—a massive rupture splitting it in half. Along the breach, it seemed as if a colossal bulldozer had plowed through the entire complex.
Everywhere lay corpses—Protoss, Zerg—all mangled and dismembered. Tap, tap, tap…
Light footsteps echoed through the metallic corridors.
Jibril, the Flügel, stood amidst the ruins of a shattered incubation chamber. Her delicate hands were smeared with viscous blood and pus, her expression one of mild disappointment. "Tch… what a letdown. I thought you'd be worth more than this."
BANG!
Like a frustrated child, Jibril kicked a twisted creature at her feet. The monster's bones snapped as it was sent flying with a roar, crashing through a concrete floor panel. From behind it, a burst of blood and tissue erupted like a ruptured balloon—flesh, shards of bone, and splattered ichor painted the walls in grotesque red patterns.
"Puh… who—what are you?"
On the floor writhed a grotesque hybrid—a being bearing both Protoss and Zerg traits. Its muscular, chitinous body supported a tendril-like crest trailing from its skull. Both its legs were shattered, raw flesh and exposed bone glistening where they'd been broken. Its scythe-like forelimbs were pinned to the ground by dark, energy-forged blades.
Zzzzt!
Violet-red energy particles corroded its flesh. The instant they touched its body, its skin flared as though aflame, molten agony searing through its veins. Its body convulsed violently, twitching as its form began to shift—like a mirage warping into something new.
One second, the creature still bore the features of a grotesque Protoss-Zerg hybrid. The next, its body warped and reshaped—into the form of a muscular black man clad in a white undershirt, blue pants, and a beret.
It was none other than Samir Duran, a human lieutenant of the United Earth Directorate.
But then, it changed again.
From a black soldier into an elderly white man.
That iconic, thick, pale goatee—it was unmistakable. The same man known as Doctor Narud, head of the Moebius Foundation, the one who had funded Valerian Mengsk's archaeological expeditions.
An old man, a child, a young girl, a youth—even a Protoss form…
And then it changed once more. With a horrifying shriek, its human body twisted into an indescribable mass of flesh—barely resembling a face—while waves of violent psionic darkness erupted from within.
"Ugly thing, stay still now… Mm, such a shame. I can't offer you to my beloved Empress, but your head should still fetch quite the price. Her Majesty told me you're the last surviving half-Zel'naga—Amon's fallen servant."
The Flügel girl cupped her cheeks, her expression a blend of madness and glee.
"Wahaha… just thinking about your unique value—hehehe! I'll have the finest artisan carve and decorate your head, then flaunt it in front of Azril and the others every single day! Hmm… which one of your forms should I decapitate, I wonder?"
Wiping away a bit of drool, Jibril released a pulse of energy to shake the blood from her hands, her smirk mocking and cruel as she gazed at the shapeshifting mass before her.
Samir Duran was him. Narud was him. Perhaps every name was merely an alias. As Amon's final contingency in the material world, his shapeshifting nature made it impossible to know how many identities he had worn.
But it didn't matter.
"Amon is eternal! He will return!"
The creature roared.
So loyal.
Hearing the doomed being's defiant cry, the Flügel girl's smile grew darker, her eyes shining with manic delight. "You should worry about yourself first…"
"My, my—why am I even talking so much? Naughty me. Let's get to work. This requires precision craftsmanship."
Bzzt—!
Jibril focused the high-density compressed Honkai particles into a directional beam, accelerating them to devastating speed. The volatile energy roared like an invisible ocean, engulfing the warped illusion that was once Samir Duran.
Splash!
"Be good now—it won't hurt…"
Chains of light pierced his body, suspending him as spectral scythes hooked into his limbs. It was mockery—it was play. Jibril swung her blade of light.
Its bulging eyes stared wide in terror at Jibril's perfect, angelic face.
"AAAAAAAHHHH—!"
As waves of psionic darkness exploded outward, its howls became a symphony. Jibril's motions were unbroken—the wet, slicing sound of flesh parting filled the air, followed by the brittle crack of bones shattering like dry wood. The floor around them was instantly soaked scarlet.
"Ahahaha—!"
Another body twisted by agony slowly stiffened in terror and despair.
...
The endless void.
"I knew it."
Watching silently from afar, Selene's mouth twitched sharply. She shook her robes, covering her face with a helpless sigh as her form dissolved into countless motes of light, drifting away like fireflies.
"There's still a long way to go…"
—
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