Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 808 (08.807): 'Severus's Ambition'

The relentless sunlight of the star baked the charred artificial turf, and waves of heat twisted and rose above the field.

The two teams—the Ministry of Justice and the Imperial Navy—are already in position.

Before Horatio, the faces of these trainees displayed a mixture of youthful stubbornness and a deeply ingrained coldness—marks inevitably left in the crucible of forging the pillars of the empire.

"Phoenix, prepare to advance! Use your speed!" The legal team leader didn't shout, but his voice was still clear and powerful.

“Leave it to me,” Phoenix, their forward, replied in a low voice, his body sinking slightly, his muscles tense like a winch about to be released.

A sharp whistle pierced the heavy silence, and the match began.

The Ministry of Justice's striker, Phoenix, charged towards the ball in the center circle like an arrow.

However, his sprint lasted less than three seconds before a tall, muscular shadow loomed over him.

It felt like a sudden solar eclipse, as if the air itself had cooled down.

He instinctively looked up, only to see Horatio's face with a slightly amused smile.

The smile didn't reach his eyes; it was more like the utter confidence of a predator locking onto its prey.

Horatio's long legs swept out with an astonishing speed completely disproportionate to his massive body, the end of his foot already becoming a blur that was invisible to ordinary people.

boom!
It wasn't a muffled thud, but a crisp, explosive sound, like a large-caliber weapon firing from its barrel.

The football underwent a visible deformation the moment it was hit, and then bounced out at an incredible speed.

Whoosh-!
It is no longer a ball, but a projectile in the physical sense.

It tore a barely perceptible trail through the scorching air, leaving a faintly glowing contrail caused by its ultra-high speed.

Its arc was so straight that the ordinary spectators in the stands could not comprehend what they were seeing; the ball seemed to have left the midfield at the same moment and appeared in front of the goal at the same moment.

The opposing goalkeeper, an elite student who had also undergone genetic optimization and rigorous training at the Loyalty Academy, clearly captured the trajectory of the football with his retina, and his brain instantly calculated the interception route and the best save posture.

But he was still a step too slow.

It wasn't that his reaction wasn't fast enough, but rather that the kinetic energy contained in that whistling football was simply too terrifying.

In that tenth of a second, a fatal, purely logical conflict flashed through his mind.

His training taught him that duty comes first and that he must complete the mission at all costs.

But the same training also taught him that forcing his way into receiving the ball would be life-threatening!
Is it to be loyal to the task at hand, or to be loyal to one's own life?

This moment of hesitation, stemming from a logical paradox rather than a simple survival instinct, determined everything.

His already initiated save attempt paused almost imperceptibly.

clang--!
The football, like a whistling battering ram, crashed heavily into the metal netting of the goal.

The net was stretched into an exaggerated dent by the enormous impact, emitting a metallic groan of unbearable strain.

The football spun at an astonishing speed in the net, wrapping the net around its surface several times, unleashing the violent energy it contained.

Several seconds later, it finally exhausted all its kinetic energy and fell out of the rolled-up net, landing weakly on the rubber surface behind it with a few thuds. It must be said, the net was of really good quality.

An eerie silence fell over the audience, a collective speechlessness born of disbelief.

Immediately afterwards, the silence was shattered by thunderous exclamations and applause.

The audience members stood up from their seats and pounded on the railings in front of them. Their dull daily routines were replaced by primal awe and excitement at this moment.

What they admired was not just a goal, but a pure and ultimate display of power.

The first round was over the instant the match began.

"Sorry, sorry," Horatio scratched the back of his head somewhat embarrassedly, while casually stretching his ankles, as if the earth-shattering blow just now was merely a warm-up.

He addressed his still somewhat sluggish opponents, saying, "It's been too long since we've had any exercise, and I didn't control my strength properly. I'll be more careful next round." His tone was relaxed, and he wore that charming, slightly apologetic smile, but the subtext was crystal clear: he was fully capable of turning this match into a one-sided massacre. If every ball was played like this, then this so-called match would be meaningless, let alone yield any tactical training value. Moreover, he didn't want to pour cold water on these promising younger players. This behavior wasn't arrogance, but rather a higher-level tactical consideration—maintaining the morale of his future colleagues was itself a manifestation of leadership.

He clapped his hands, exchanged a glance with his teammate Louise, and then voluntarily retreated to a deeper position in midfield, giving the forward line to his teammates.

“Come on, round two,” he said with a smile to the young man opposite him, his face full of encouragement. “This time, I’ll go easy on him.”
-
Meanwhile, on the planet Lukis, within the Governor's mansion's magnificent palace on the Whirlwind Defense Line, the air was filled with alien incense and the lingering scent of decadent luxury.

Holographic murals flow across the walls, depicting the glorious history of this world being brought under imperial rule. Golden eaves and velvet carpets absorb all sounds, creating an almost stagnant tranquility.

"Ahem!"

A short, painful groan shattered the silence.

Then came the jarring sound of crystal glasses and silver trays slamming onto the marble floor, followed by a scream from a maid in a red servant's robe, which was quickly drowned out by a man's boisterous laughter.

The man grabbed the woman's chin from behind, forcing her to raise her head.

She stared in horror at the man before her, who wore a laurel wreath, a bright red robe, and a white silk overcoat; her lips trembled slightly with fear.

His face was handsome, but at this moment it was contorted with a frenzied joy.

“Be happy, Vilan,” Governor Severus XIII’s voice was chillingly gentle. “We have ushered in a new era.”

Vilan's gaze went over his shoulder and landed on the corpse on the ground.

The deceased was an imperial envoy from Holy Terra, and his ceremonial robes, representing supreme authority, were now soaked with his own blood.

Vilan's body began to tremble uncontrollably.

“Our allies are exceptionally powerful, and we ourselves are powerful enough,” Severus XIII continued, his voice filled with a savior-like fervor. “We don’t need any empire; we are the empire ourselves.”

Severus XIII burst into laughter, and behind him, a group of tall, slender figures emerged from the deepest shadows of the palace.

It looks like a non-human.

They wore magnificent black-purple armor that seemed to be pieced together from sharp blades and bone spikes, and their movements carried an inhuman, fluid, and deadly elegance.

These dark Eldar silently stepped over the corpse of the Imperial envoy. One of them bent down and, with an almost artistic precision, gouged out the dead man's eyes with a grotesque scimitar.

That was a desecration, an ultimate contempt for imperial authority.

Severus remained oblivious to the horrific scene, as if it were merely a normal ritual under the new order.

He released the maid and strode toward the huge terrace facing the central square.

At the top of the Roman-style colonnade beneath his feet, the muzzle of an automatic defense laser cannon pointed directly downwards, while three kilometers behind him, the robust barrel of a twin-mounted railgun was silently pointing towards the starry sky.

These weapons, which once protected Lukis from foreign invasion, have now become the scepter and cornerstone of his new regime.

He stood on the edge of the terrace, raising his arms and shouting to the sea of ​​people in the square outside.

His voice, amplified through the loudspeaker system, echoed across the entire square like a divine pronouncement.

"The high lords of Terra have drained us of our blood for their own selfish gain, yet they stand idly by while we fight the alien threat! Citizens of Lukith, it is time! It is time to leave our tithes to defend our own homeland!"

His speech was full of inflammatory rhetoric, cleverly linking the empire's oppressive rule with the people's suffering, packaging treason as freedom, and portraying division as self-strengthening.

He portrayed himself as a hero who resisted tyranny, a guardian who spoke out for the people.

"Severus XIII! Severus XIII! Severus XIII!"

The crowd below erupted in thunderous cheers.

They were kept outside the palace by heavily armed soldiers dressed in bright red Roman-style armor, the uniform of the Severus family's private guard, not the uniform of the Imperial Guard.

This attire itself is a clear signal: their loyalty has shifted from distant Terra to the governor before them.

The fervor of the crowd, the loyalty of the soldiers, the alliance with the aliens, and the murder of the Imperial envoy together formed the cornerstone of this rebellion.

(End of this chapter)