Warhammer: Empire Reboot

A macroscopic star map of the Milky Way unfolds on Rosen's retina.

On the edge of the Milky Way, in a void where stars are extremely sparse, a red dot is moving slowly. It glides along a complex arc, avoiding hotspots, chaotic tides, Imperial routes, and known burial grounds.

Lawson stared at the red dot.

“Saiem-Han”.

"They run pretty fast."

From this moment on, the strategic initiative changed hands.

Lawson connected to the central control node of a planetary fortress located at the edge of the Agrippina sector.

"T-108".

"BOSS, the Battle Moon master node is online."

The mechanical voice relayed: "Welding of the outer three-kilometer-long refined gold composite armor plate is 100% complete. The gravity whip array, macro cannon matrix, and omnidirectional light lance fire control have completed physical connection. The fortress's quality parameters are stable. Swarm fire control access is locked. Long-range strategic maneuvers are now possible."

In the background, a sharp, excited scream suddenly burst into the channel.

"Big Boss! Big Boss! I'm online too! Twenty million guys are working! The engine had a good meal yesterday! It's so strong now it could bite the moon off!"

Lawson ignored the little wrench's nonsense.

"Activate the main engine, tear open the veil of reality, and enter subspace. Target coordinates have been sent; the flight path will be corrected with the assistance of the star node."

"Receive coordinates. Physics engine warm-up."

The T-108 command swiftly descended, penetrating every layer of armor, pipeline, core, gravity whip base, and macro cannon array of that massive celestial body.

"Little wrench, take your labor team to the bottom floor, increase WAAAGH energy output, and prepare for overload and pressure resistance."

"Understood! You little brats, don't slack off! The big boss wants us to scare a pointy-eared wrecked ship! WAAAGH!"

The shrill, chaotic cries of the bastards could be heard through the background noise of the communications, before being coldly suppressed by the T-108.

Lawson stared at the data link.

"No need to rush. The target is an ark wandering on the edge of the galaxy, moving very fast and constantly changing course. Once we enter the subspace, I will update its absolute position in real time based on the network beacon."

"We expect to intercept it on its inevitable path within two to three months."

“Swarm navigation computing power has been allocated. Jump error is within acceptable range.”

Communication was cut off.

Images of the edge of a distant star sector flashed through Lawson's mind.

The battle moon, encased in composite armor several kilometers thick and riddled with massive cannons and gravity weapons, slowly turned amidst the roar of its planetary engines.

The next second, the massive celestial body forcefully broke through the membrane of reality and plunged into the subspace undercurrent.

This is Lawson's bargaining chip.

A moon on its way.

Lawson turned away from the command console and returned to the archives area of ​​the command center.

Ilancia Moonblade sat at her workbench, typing in a translation onto an ancient parchment.

Her long hair was casually tied up, and her brows were furrowed, clearly still struggling with that obscure ancient sound.

She didn't look up when she heard footsteps.

"We still have one-third of today's task to complete."

"I will finish translating it."

Lawson walked to her desk and tapped the surface with his knuckles.

Ilancia finally looked up.

“No rush,” Lawson said.

Ilancia looked at him suspiciously.

Lawson picked up the page she had translated, glanced at it, and put it back.

"Turn slowly."

"We have plenty of time."

As Ilancia stared at his retreating figure, she suddenly felt a chill run down her spine.

She didn't know what happened.

But she began to understand something.

The better Lawson is in a mood, the more likely someone is going to be in trouble.

…………

Deep in subspace, in a hidden anchorage unmarked by any star map.

A supreme celestial storm, interwoven with crimson and dark gold, churned in the outer layer.

Etheric vortices tore at each other, and demonic whispers swam in swarms within the storm, yet dared not approach the center of the anchorage.

A peaceful area was carved out of there.

The fleet is assembling in this void depression.

Abaddon stood at the porthole.

This battleship is very old; it was once one of the Black Legion's backup command centers, and its hull is covered with many battle scars from the Dark Expedition.

But it is not the Vengeful Spirit.

Everyone on the bridge knew this.

Abaddon's newborn had his arms hanging down at his sides.

A dark red stratum corneum covers the skin, and thick black blood vessels coil around the muscles like living snakes.

Several tiny subspace cracks appeared near the wrist, emitting a faint light that smelled of sulfur.

The four gods saved him.

This further tightened their grip on him.

The blessing made his power more violent than before, and also added several hooks that he could not pull out deep into his soul.

He didn't allow himself to look back at the makeshift powered greatsword at his waist.

He is waiting.

Wait for the Creator who made a pact with him to forge new weapons for him.

Half a body length to the side and rear of the bridge, Blackheart Huron stood quietly.

The former master of the Great Whirlpool, the king of the Red Pirates, has lost too much.

The Ghost of Destruction was captured, the century-old treasure trove was emptied, the Great Vortex was blown into a radiation wasteland by Lawson's assassins, and even his most beloved psionic alien, Hamadlaya, had its head crushed by Lawson's guards on his own flagship.

Like a beautiful little insect, crushed by iron boots.

Huron has been officially integrated into the Black Legion's command structure, becoming one of Abaddon's new second-in-commands.

A seeker of refuge.

A crippled king.

“Every time I see these things,” Huron finally spoke, the red light in his single eye reflecting the giant shadow outside the porthole, “I think Vashtor is a madman.”

Dozens of enormous vessels hovered in front of them.

Ominous Ark.

They are more like mountains of corpses dragged out of the deep sea of ​​subspace, forcibly sewn into a ship by some malicious craftsman using nails, blood vessels, and gears.

On the left side of one of the arks, half of an Imperial cruiser's hull remained, its massive cannon array flipped outwards like rotting ribs.

The other ship had an alien meteorite fortress embedded in its belly, its surface covered with grayish-white spikes.

Several other ships, towing piles of wrecked debris, resembled strange whales draped in shattered continents, slowly turning in the crimson storm.

They originated from abandoned spaceships.

Those drifting graveyards, formed over thousands of years by the wreckage of Imperial ships, alien shells, ancient fortresses, and fragments of unknown civilizations, have been floating in the waves of the warp.

Vashtor turned the cemetery into a fleet.

After the Black Legion captures the wrecked ship, the first to board are always Terminator veterans and possessed warriors.

They would carry chainsaw axes, molten metal, and explosive guns, and charge into the deepest part of the wrecked ship.

The gene-stealing patriarch will be dragged out of the hatchery and torn to pieces.

Orc tribes driven mad will be burned to ashes.

Those vengeful spirits that have wandered in the dark compartments for thousands of years will be sealed in iron canisters by the Chaos Wizards and used as cheap fuel for the Soul-Guiding Pillars later.

The artisans of Vashtor will only enter once a sufficiently spacious core area has been cleared.

The Creator will stand in the abyss at the heart of the wrecked ship, releasing hundreds of millions of cyborg nematodes. These tiny creatures, glowing with a ghostly greenish-brown patina, will swarm into every crevice of the hull like ravenous metal maggots.

They burrowed into the armor, gnawed at the decaying cables, devoured the remnants of old machine souls, and then wove together cables resembling neural synapses using their own corpses, subspace energy, and fragments of magic steel.

The longer the cable, the more numerous.

Finally, they ran through the entire wrecked ship.

The ship's hull, engines, shields, reactors, fire control arrays, alien devices, and relics of an unknown civilization were all connected to the same living Magic Steel neural network.

Every Omen Ark is different.

Because each corpse decomposes in a different way.

The Dark Mechanicus's technical slaves and servants burrowed into available space like worker ants.

They built turrets from Chaos Waste, slave bones, and alien alloys, carved hangars out of the rock strata, and roughly welded old energy pipelines onto the boiling subspace reactor.

You can use it.

As long as it can fire.

As for whether the structure is stable, whether the hull is in pain, or whether there are any ancient curses screaming inside, nobody cares.