Time for a compliance omake. Here is the list.
Perturabo 19+19+20+20: An incredibly talented soldier from the Dark Age of Technology named Ave who was kept alive by the world's last dose of Dark Age rejuvenat. Over ten-thousand years old, she reached the rank of Sergeant during the Age of Strife before formal military structures broke down and is considered to be one of the greatest fighters alive.
-She claims to know of a few of the Imperium's past and current enemies, but refuses to discuss them. Hates the Aeldari and possesses a massive bonus against them.
Dorn 1+1+1: A psychic Titan Legion that specialises in excellent use of fortifications and pre-emplaced assets. The Legio is supported by a heavily mechanised army that's been conquering worlds in the surrounding region. Isolationists, any that surrender are subjected to reeducation camps and for indoctrination.
-They believe that they are the rightful inheritors for the Federation of Man, and all pretenders must be crushed below their boots as punishment.
Magnus 2: A hardware locked artificial intelligence known as 120-MAN that's been acting as a mercenary for local governments. Unable to leave the black box that it relies on to operate, they have been able to openly act by being disguised as a Tech Priest. Their true nature is known by a few governments, with one having recently been gone through a coup. Now pursued by government kill teams, the artificial intelligence is on the run and has managed to survive due to vast experience and the help of local allies. Assistance has been requested.
-This artificial intelligence appears to be the same one that appeared on Detroik for the god auction, whom was also disguised as a Tech Priest.
Magnus 19: A loose alliance of worlds that has been actively keeping the region tame and corralled, which makes the revelation of the above artificial intelligence's existence very annoying. But they have also been distracted by a few other flare-ups in the region which the Imperium was tasked to handle. While the Imperial Army can handle this on their own, they would appreciate Astartes support as well.
Flashpoints: Compliances VI
Warlord of Old…
Perturabo rarely turned away a useful asset, no matter how strange or untested they might be by his exacting standards. Over the years, the Lord of Iron had learned that some unorthodox opportunities could hold immense value if one was willing to entertain them.
One shouldn't simply dismiss something before giving it a second glance—there was always potential if you knew where to look.
Yet, even Perturabo found himself wondering if he was being overly lenient. He had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the Khan might have said, and so when his sons brought him their most recent find, he hadn't sent her away immediately.
"She claims to be from the Dark Age?" Perturabo asked, his deep voice resonating through the chamber as he addressed his gathered Warsmiths. Forrix, Dantioch, and Kroeger stood before him. "I find that difficult to believe."
Dantioch's expression was unknowable, forever masked by the iron visage he wore, so he could only give a casual shrug to indicate his thoughts. "Ave provided several documents, which she insists are proof of her lineage. We haven't detected any signs of deception during our interrogations."
Perturabo's gaze narrowed slightly. He had already scrutinized the so-called file. According to the biometric data, this woman, Ave Ceridwyn of the Ceridian 501st Battalion, was over ten thousand years old. The readings were consistent, matching the genetic and temporal markers from the Dark Age of Technology. He had personally verified the results by performing the tests himself.
The data didn't lie. But people often did.
"Where did you find her?" Perturabo asked, his curiosity piqued. "And why did she come willingly?"
Forrix, standing at attention, replied, "She was leading a mercenary unit on Aliron IV, fighting off a detachment of Dark Eldar raiders. When we encountered her, Sergeant Ceridwyn was single-handedly cutting through the xenos with such ease that, for a moment, I thought she might be a daemon—or a psyker. I introduced myself, and while she initially resisted, she agreed to come with me, but only after she had 'finished off the knife-eared bastards' on the planet. I thought it better to work with her than force the issue."
"And?" Perturabo's eyes narrowed. "Did she manage to kill the aliens?"
Forrix shook his head. "Sadly, no. They lived up to their cowardly nature and fled."
Dantioch scoffed under his iron mask. "Typical."
"And afterward, she agreed to an interrogation?" Perturabo continued.
"She did," Forrix replied, still sounding slightly surprised. "No resistance whatsoever. She even allowed us to take genetic samples after claiming she was over 10,000 years old. She provided documentation to support her story. It seems... she's used to this kind of treatment."
Perturabo considered the situation for a moment. The story sounded plausible enough, but something still didn't sit right. "And how exactly has she stayed alive for so long?" he asked, knowing the official answer but wanting to see if Forrix had uncovered anything more.
"She claims it's due to an experimental rejuvenat drug—Substance C-09. According to her, it prolonged her biological functions to an extraordinary degree, granting her increased longevity and cellular regeneration. However, she mentioned some side effects: it rendered her sterile and caused minor mutations. The most notable is that her blood contains high amounts of copper and iron, giving it a strange pigment."
Perturabo's interest deepened. A minor mutation, inconsequential to most, but indicative of her unusual survival. "And her career? It must be quite the story."
Forrix nodded. "Her unit, the Ceridian 501st, was a specialist battalion focused on planetary defense and counter-raid tactics. They were trained to deal with xeno raiders, especially the Aeldari, and excelled in guerrilla warfare. She became a sergeant during the early days of the Age of Strife, but her unit was eventually wiped out during the Psyker Bloom that ravaged humanity."
"That's putting it lightly," Kroeger interjected, his voice edged with amusement. "She's described the Old Federation as floundering, barely able to hold its own against the aliens. This seems to have colored her hatred for the Eldar and psykers as well. It sure runs deep—almost inspiring."
"She's very proud of her service," Forrix continued. "And she was good. Preliminary behavioral and intelligence analysis indicates that Ave excels in aggressive tactical thinking, maneuver warfare, and multiple combat styles. Her psy-defense capabilities are perhaps the highest ever recorded in a mortal human within the Imperium."
Dantioch muffled a sigh behind his iron mask. "The issue, though, is that Sergeant Ceridwyn has... a very belligerent mentality. Lord Primarch, I'm sure you've already reviewed her psychological profile. It's not what you'd call... reassuring."
That was putting it mildly. By every metric, Sergeant Ceridwyn's mental state was a minefield of warning signs. Her identity was bound entirely to warfare, as though her very existence was intertwined with the military structure that had shaped her. She embodied discipline, loyalty, and a survival instinct honed over millennia, but that came at a cost—the psychological burden of a life spent almost exclusively in war.
To say she was emotionally hardened would be an understatement. She wasn't just scarred; she was defined by it. Thousands of years of warfare had etched themselves into her very being. Perturabo doubted whether this one could ever imagine a life outside of battle.
"War is her coping mechanism," Dantioch warned. "I won't deny that I'd want her beside me in a fight. She follows orders as long as she respects the commander, but it's not out of loyalty or belief—it's practical. It's inertia. Violence is part of who she is."
"But it's not all of her," Forrix countered. "Ave wants to stabilize the galaxy. She admits to having a deep-seated need for order and control because she can still recall what peace felt like. She fights to give others the stability she once knew—so long as the Imperium is willing to do whatever it takes."
Perturabo nodded thoughtfully. Both of his Warsmiths had valid points. Then he turned to Kroeger, who had remained silent throughout. "What do you think, Kroeger?"
Kroeger grimaced, clearly uneasy. "Not much to add. But I'd say the biggest problem is that Sergeant Ceridwyn doesn't seem capable of working well with others. My guess? She struggles to form meaningful connections with people. The psychological report mentions she's the last survivor of her unit, and that likely comes with survivor's guilt. Combine that with everything else, and you've got someone desensitized not just to violence and death—but to human connection as well. She's deeply pragmatic, focused entirely on her mission to stabilize the galaxy."
He paused, shaking his head. "It's a miracle she isn't completely insane."
"Insanity wouldn't be an instant disqualification," Perturabo muttered, his tone dismissive. He had worked with plenty of madmen in the past. "Does she display any self-destructive or harmful tendencies?"
"None whatsoever," Forrix replied. "If anything, she's rather unremarkable in her personal habits. By her own admission, she spends nearly all her free time training. She claims that after 10,000 years, she's experienced enough pleasures to last several lifetimes and considers indulgence a waste of effort."
Perturabo considered this. It wasn't exactly praise—more an indicator that Sergeant Ceridwyn wouldn't engage in anything ruinous to herself or the Iron Warriors. But the real concern lay elsewhere. "How is her combat effectiveness?" he asked, shifting focus to what truly mattered.
"Ceridwyn is more than capable. She can hold her own against Astartes without issue," Forrix remarked. "She wields a heavily modified railgun—something the Mechanicum would likely consider heretical—and wears custom power armor, lighter than our standard issue but sophisticated enough that even our scanners can't fully analyze it."
The Lord of Iron nodded, only mildly impressed. Such innovations were rare but not unheard of. "And her mental resilience? The warp is a constant threat, especially given the enemies we face."
"Her mental fortitude is remarkable—hardened far beyond what most mortals could endure," Forrix replied. "But there is something curious: despite her long history in combat, Ave claims she has never fought daemons. It's possible she encountered them without realizing it, or perhaps she was somehow shielded from their presence. But, for a soldier of her age, it's an anomaly."
"Ignorance or fortune, it hardly matters." Perturabo remarked, "She has at least fought the Eldar enough times to warrant their ire and enough psykers. I don't imagine she's completely unfamiliar with the warp…"
Kroeger frowned, unconvinced. "What if she's lying?"
"And what would she gain from such a lie?" Dantioch's tone held a hint of curiosity. "Unless you're suggesting she's hiding something she doesn't want us to discover."
Forrix chimed in, his voice more measured. "It's worth mentioning that she refused a psy-scan. Ave wouldn't allow a psyker to probe her mind. She cited it as a matter of principle—claimed she didn't trust anyone 'rooting around' in her head."
"I won't press the issue," Perturabo said, his tone final. "She's been forthcoming enough. Unless you have reason to believe she's hiding something, we'll monitor her for now. Assign her a handler."
"With all respect, Lord Primarch," Forrix began cautiously, "what exactly do you intend to do with her? Ceridwyn cooperates with us because she believes we're restoring the order the Emperor envisioned. But how do we use her talents?"
Perturabo had already been turning the possibilities over in his mind. "She will train my Black Brigades," he decided. "Once she's shaped them into a capable force, Sergeant Ceridwyn will lead them into battle. Be sure to assign one of the more loyal elements to her force."
As far as the Lord of Iron was concerned, nothing more was to be said. He had gotten another asset. Besides, Ave was a potentially endless font of knowledge if she was willing to divulge such secrets in time. If nothing else, anti-Eldar tactics would be extremely useful. Trust was a difficult thing for a woman like this, but even Perturabo had learned to trust others in due time and with sufficient deeds to back their words. She would be no different in the end.
By the Bones of our Fathers…
Rogal Dorn was, by nature, a patient man—methodical and deliberate, rarely prone to hasty judgments or premature conclusions. He knew his own stubbornness but also knew the limits of his patience. Those foolish enough to test it seldom had a second chance.
The Dominion of Kheledros was one such test. This polity, with its self-aggrandizing proclamations of being the "true masters of humanity," was an irritation Dorn could not dismiss. Their claim to be the rightful inheritors of the Old Federation was no more than arrogant posturing in his eyes, the same empty rhetoric spouted by many nations that had arisen in humanity's long, fractured history.
When the 12th Expeditionary Fleet first encountered the Kheledrosians, there was no warm welcome or shared sense of purpose. The Dominion was a closed, insular society governed by psykers who had embedded themselves deeply into every level of its militaristic state. It was an admittedly formidable state that had institutionalized warcraft and warp manipulation to a rare degree, even among humanity's more advanced polities.
The Kheledrosians seemed unable—or unwilling—to accept that the Imperium of Man now ruled over Sol, the heart of the Old Federation. Instead, they clung to an audacious claim that their homeworld, Kheledros, had been declared the emergency capital of the Old Federation during the Iron Man Rebellion. They even cited some long-forgotten martial law decree by General Laurence Kennoc of the 107th Terran Armored Corps as if such a document held any weight in the present age.
The notion was laughable, not only because it was rooted in ancient legal gymnastics but because the Imperium had no interest in humoring their delusions. Four sectors of Imperial space were theirs, they claimed? Rogal Dorn didn't find it ridiculous—he found it offensive. Their sheer audacity was an insult, grating against the Primarch's innate sense of order and justice.
But it wasn't their territorial claims alone that stirred Rogal's ire. What truly rankled him was how the Kheledrosians governed themselves, or more accurately, how their Council of Thalassarchs—a council of self-styled warlords—dominated their nation. Each Thalassarch ruled over a sub-segment of the Dominion, personally overseeing the vast military-industrial complexes and the endless mechanized legions that kept their war machine running. It was a farce of leadership, a dictatorship of martial strength masquerading as rightful governance.
Yet, there was a grudging respect for the Dominion's singular focus. Their society was organized with a relentless drive toward strength, order, and destiny. From the earliest age, Kheledrosians were indoctrinated into the belief that they alone were the true heirs of the Old Federation's legacy and that their mission was to reclaim humanity's lost worlds and restore the galaxy to its rightful order—under their rule. This fervent belief had turned their society into a war machine, producing generations of hardened warriors, skilled psykers, and brilliant engineers.
It was dangerous, certainly, but also respectable in a grim way. Their lives were austere, disciplined, and singularly focused on preparing for the inevitable reclamation of the galaxy. Fortress-factory cities churned out weapons of war while the people either trained for combat or worked to keep the military engine running. And now, centuries of preparation would bring them to the brink of their ultimate test.
Rogal knew well that the Kheledrosians would not fall easily. Their military boasted three fully operational fleets, 20 billion mechanized infantry soldiers—augmented, battle-hardened, and backed by powerful psykers—and a citizenry numbering in the hundreds of billions, all ready to fight and die for their so-called destiny. They were a force to be reckoned with.
However, their greatest force and true threat to compliance was not their armies or fleets but a singular group, Legio Dominatus Fidelis, the personal Titan Legion of the Dominion. These Titans were more than mere war engines; they were living monuments to the Old Federation, venerated by the Kheledrosians as embodying their legacy. Their Princeps were regarded not merely as commanders but as the founders of the Dominion's militaristic ethos.
They would not die easily.
Nor would they be easy to reach. The Dominion of Kheledros controlled a tightly bound cluster of core worlds, each guarded like a fortress. Surrounding these worlds were formidable defenses—moons covered with anti-orbital weapons, missiles silos, and enough garrisons that would take at least a company of Astartes to remove with Imperial Army support, plenty of watch-outposts constantly scanning for intruders, and a vast network of patrol craft that made the idea of reaching their capital without being detected laughable.
Any attempt to breach this web of defenses would be met with overwhelming force, which to Dorn would be a more dangerous obstacle, but he was now interested in being stuck in a protracted campaign. Unfortunately, the Praetorian might not have a choice.
This issue wasn't so much the elaborate defenses or how dug-in they were, but rather, it would be the defender's determination and fortitude born of centuries of meticulous planning, paranoia, and an almost obsessive commitment to their eventual expansionist philosophy.
Reaching the heart of the Dominion would be a siege that would cost oceans of blood and countless resources before even beginning the battle for their capital. Yet, despite these formidable defenses, Dorn knew they were not invulnerable.
Every fortress had a weakness; every defense could be unraveled. The more rigid a system, the more fragile it became when pressure was applied just the right way. While this sort of thinking fell naturally under Perturabo's purview, Rogal Dorn was just as capable of destroying a citadel as he was of constructing one.
The question was
how to go about it.
Sigismund argued that a protracted siege would be a mistake from the outset. He believed the best course was to avoid getting bogged down in a long, drawn-out conflict and force the Kheledrosians into choosing what they most wanted to defend. By pushing them into a no-win scenario, with multiple targets under threat of destruction, they would be compelled to thin their forces, making a decisive blow all the more attainable.
Archamus had a different perspective, suggesting a more nuanced, indirect approach—something that raised the eyebrows of several captains. The Imperial Fists were not known for their subtlety, but Archamus reminded them that they were familiar with one legion that excelled in covert operations: the Alpha Legion.
Dorn was not immediately amused by the suggestion. The recent capture and subsequent escape of a high-value Gamma prisoner from their own holds, reportedly involving agents of the Hydra, was still a fresh wound. Dealing with the Alpha Legion was always frustrating, one rife with manipulation and secrets. Yet, with a looming war on the horizon, there was no time to waste on grudges.
Reluctantly, Dorn reached out to his elusive brother, and for his efforts, Alpharius offered more than just tactical advice. He promised to provide 50,000 Sparatoi, stealth vessels, and the necessary equipment to undermine the Dominion of Kheledros from within.
The Sparatoi were not simple soldiers—they were spies, saboteurs, insurgents, agitators, masters of subterfuge and chaos. Their mission was to foment treachery, spread disinformation, and deploy corrosive memetic patterns across the Dominion's populace. They would infiltrate and manipulate underground resistance movements or dissident groups, turning latent dissatisfaction into outright rebellion. Their objective was simple: sow the seeds of internal collapse, disrupt Kheledrosian infrastructure, and weaken the Dominion from within—long before the Imperial Fists engaged them directly.
With Alpharius' Sparatoi in play, the calculus of the war had indeed shifted. But Dorn did not intend to wait for the Sparatoi to work their slow poison. He wanted the Kheledrosians agitated, desperate to fulfill their misguided vision of "destiny." He would lure them into striking at the worlds they longed to reclaim. And it would be there, on those battlefields, that Rogal Dorn and his sons would be waiting.
The Imperial Fists would entrench themselves across a network of fortifications so impenetrable that any Kheledrosian attempt to breach their lines would be met with catastrophic failure. Every assault would lead to misery and sorrow as wave after wave of their forces broke upon the walls of Dorn's unyielding defenses. And as these dreadful defeats mounted, one after another, the Sparatoi would begin their more insidious work. Slowly, they would infiltrate the minds of the Kheledrosians, poisoning their thoughts, sowing seeds of doubt and fear, and turning their dreams of conquest into waking nightmares.
The Dominion of Kheledros would come to understand that it was only the mercy and patience of Rogal Dorn that kept their worlds from falling entirely into ruin. And as that reality settled in, whispers would reach the ears of the Council of Thalassarchs:
Surrender, sue for peace or face annihilation.
But Dorn knew full well that Kheledrosian pride ran deep, and if they refused to bend, then the inevitable would come. The Dominion would unleash the full might of Legio Dominatus Fidelis against the Fists, sending their towering Titans into battle, believing their living gods of war to be invincible. Yet by then, it would already be too late. The fate of the Dominion would be sealed with the destruction of their precious Titans, and when their final bastion crumbled, it would mark the end of their defiance—and their so-called destiny—forever.
Hate has deep roots…
Humanity really was a lucky species. That might have been strange given its present state and the galactic situation, but to have survived the Long Night for so long as to reignite old grudges was an almost impressive display of determination and spite.
Far be it for Magnus the Red to cast stones while standing in glass houses; he was beginning to suspect that humanity's survival was less a triumph of design and more a consequence of sheer stubbornness. It seemed to him that humans clung to life not out of wisdom or virtue but because they refused to yield—good or bad, everything persisted.
Persistence was a great thing—a beautiful thing, even. But the last century had proven to him that the human species was still trying to determine what to do with their…second chance? Third? It seemed humankind had been given many opportunities to reevaluate their future and squandered them.
Well, Magnus wasn't going to. At least, he hoped not. The last thing the Primarch wanted was to be cast into the same muck as everyone else. Hard to ignore them, especially with the situation that had been dropped into his lap.
Like so many times before, the Imperium stumbled upon a crisis. This time, it was in a place known to the locals as the Vandross Reach. Five sectors of tangled worlds, scattered stars, and a blood-soaked history much like the rest of the galaxy. In many ways, the region was no different from other corners of the Imperium.
The Imperium had recently stumbled upon the Vandross Reach through contact with the merchants of a struggling polity called the Kalebrynn Compact. As it turned out, their struggle was against an alliance of rebels styling themselves the Sovereigns. Another war of freedom versus order—a story Magnus had seen countless times, the same cycle of rebellion and repression, only with different banners and names.
Upon being informed of the situation, Magnus the Red was initially only made aware of one problem when there were two. First, the region was once ruled by the ancient Empire of Vandria, which reigned over the Reach for over two millennia. When its last emperor died without an heir, a regent assumed power—a regent who harbored deep-seated hatred for several ethnic groups within the Reach ultimately culminated in a civil war that shattered the nation into a thousand warring nation-states.
Ethnic strife, though primitive in Magnus's eyes, was an enduring problem within this realm and throughout much of the Imperium locally. Ancient grudges had solidified into traditions and eventually into institutions and, in many cases, became perverse badges of honor for a world or system.
Vandria was no exception.
But that was over a century ago. Since then, the Sovereigns, those who called themselves victims of the Empire and the Compact, the successors of said Empire, have transformed much of the Vandross Reach into a battlefield. That alone was as much a headache for Magnus as if it had been full of Chaos or Xenos. At least then, he'd have the option to destroy one or both.
A warning of a second complicating factor had recently escalated the tensions in the Reach: an AI lurking in the shadows of this troubled realm. Magnus had not learned of it through local whispers, the Imperium, or even his sons. Instead, the warning had come from Morianne, his adopted "little sister" and a Farseer with visions that occasionally reached far beyond the Aeldari.
Morianne's letter was, as usual, equal parts cryptic and ominous, though Magnus knew better than to dismiss her insights:
"Upon a crucible of forged alliances and bloody stones stands the Iron King. In time, it shall summon allies from the Black—where stars are unnamed, and the dead lie unmourned, despised. The wars it commands were not woven by its hands. Do not seek to end them, for they shall forever burn within men's hearts."
To most, Morianne's words would seem an enigma wrapped in prophecy as per the usual cryptic Eldar warnings. But Magnus, guided by his extensive understanding of Aeldari visions and aided by his sons' talents, set to decipher her warning through further divination. Before long, he began to glimpse the truth within this portent.
First, this "Iron King" was no mere metaphor or fanciful title; it referred to a Man of Iron, specifically identified as 120-MAN. Its presence became unmistakably clear within the Warp as Amon and Ahriman unraveled this story further. This thinking machine was the architect behind the Sovereigns' recent surge in victories and technological advancements against the Compact.
This revelation complicated an already tense situation in the Vandross Reach. If the Mechanicum were to learn of 120-MAN's existence and influence, they would no doubt send a horde of tech-priests and magi to capture or destroy it, potentially torching entire sectors in their zeal to eliminate the AI.
Not that Magnus could totally blame. Ahriman's disturbing insight deepened the Primarchs unease: the Warp had whispered a further secret to the Blind Astartes regarding 120-MAN's motives.
The AI was not simply meddling in human affairs; it sought a communication node to reach out to... someone—or something—hidden beyond the veil of this sector. Ahriman could not yet discern who or what this might be, but upon remembering Morianne's message, hinted that 120-MAN intended to summon powerful allies.
This could not be allowed to come to pass. A powerful AI, directing human proxies while the Imperium frayed at the edges, posed a catastrophic threat. The Primarch ordered his sons to ready themselves for war and instructed Ahriman to assemble a strike team to locate and neutralize 120-MAN the moment it revealed itself.
Yet, upon arriving in the Vandross Reach, Magnus quickly realized that his mission would not be simple—thanks, in large part, to the local population. The conflict between the Compact and the Sovereigns was only the most visible of many, with smaller skirmishes, feuds, and longstanding vendettas simmering beneath the surface. Only when the Thousand Sons rendezvoused with the 101st Expeditionary Fleet did they fully comprehend just how dire the state of the Reach truly was.
Here, hatred was a disease that transcended generations, festering as trauma that had passed down across the former realm of Vandria. Entire worlds bear the scars of ancient conflicts, with militias and remnants of the "legit" government fighting on in the name of orders issued centuries ago, often against people who couldn't even tell where the former capital world was or who was in charge.
These forces—now cloaked within cultural enclaves masquerading as sovereign nations—clashed in brutal skirmishes, reaved one another, or simply raided supply lines, sabotaged infrastructure, and ground each other down in campaigns that never amounted to anything more than a few destroyed hives or forges being taken.
Billions died, and more were left adrift. All those who once called each other kin were now bitter enemies.
Pogroms and purges, familiar on many Imperial worlds for rooting out psykers, abhumans, and mutants, are also unleashed upon ordinary humans, whose only crimes were either adhering to old oaths or belonging to specific ethnic elements; it only mattered whichever was most convenient.
Ancient warlords and petty despots exploit deep-rooted grievances, painting certain groups as "outsiders" to justify these violent campaigns or, if the world was lucky, merely being extorted for protection. Entire populations were eventually driven from their homes, fueling resentment and sparking long, bitter civil wars that would undoubtedly haunt the Reach for generations.
This resentment produced not just the Sovereigns or Compact but revolutionaries, rogue nobles, mercenary companies, and tyrants who would wage wars on multiple fronts—against the Compact, the Sovereigns, and, at times, each other—all seeking to carve out their own quasi-independent fiefdoms, often driven by greed and an insatiable thirst for power.
In this nightmare, no one is safe, and nothing is sacred. Even the Kalebrynn Compact and the Sovereigns are vulnerable to their own fates. Magnus didn't need to see into the future for that fate.
The Compact claims to restore order, while the Sovereigns, controlled by 120-MAN, are a volatile mix of pirates, rebels, and ideologues. But neither will last. They will eventually fall—whether to each other, to internal corruption, or simply to the crushing might of the Imperium.
Were it not for the crises keeping Vulkan and Konrad occupied, Magnus would have summoned his brothers to intervene, for never before had the Crimson King witnessed such a terrible, unending tragedy.
For it was exactly that. Hundreds of billions of refugees struggle to survive, forced to flee from world to world, hoping to find safety that never lasts. Refugee camps overflow, often devolving into labor camps where survival is bartered for work. Resources dwindle, tempers flare, and conflicts erupt between natives and desperate newcomers. Violence becomes commonplace, and the cycle of suffering grinds on without end.
As Magnus reflected on the fate of the Reach, Morianne's last words echoed in his mind: "
The wars it commands were not woven by its hands. Do not seek to end them, for they shall forever burn within men's hearts."
120-MAN hadn't created these conflicts; it had merely seized upon them like a parasite thriving within a wound. The chaos across the Reach resulted from human failings—a web of ambition, pride, and long-buried hatred stretching back generations. Even if one faction claimed victory, Magnus understood the scars would take generations to heal if they ever did.
The Kalebrynn Compact, with its ideology of "logical secularism," insisted that not all were created equal, setting up a rigid hierarchy where only the "worthy" would thrive. The Sovereigns, by contrast, demanded unbounded freedom for all, a lawless expanse where survival was the only right. Though opposite in philosophy, each vision was inherently self-destructive, promising only to cycle the Reach deeper into despair.
To Magnus, the Vandross Reach seemed like a lost cause. Yet he wasn't about to abandon it. He had learned, painfully, that letting misery and despair fester would only breed more of the same. This realm, as fractured as it was, now fell under his purview. Gods willing, he would find a way to pull it back from the brink.
These people were stubborn, but that didn't mean they were beyond change. Perhaps it would take generations, and perhaps only after 120-MAN and other threats had been eliminated. But one day, the Vandross Reach might know unity again, its old scars fading with time. Or so he hoped.
---
@Daemon Hunter Here you go.
