The boundary of hyperspace in the Orraneth system trembled. First came the probes — hundreds of satellites and scout vessels, systematically taking positions and beginning to map the entire system. Only after them did the main transition begin. Moments later, the star’s light was disrupted, stretched, and distorted by the opening hyperspace window. From the void, a massive vessel emerged.

The invasion command vessel advanced with quiet majesty, as though time itself held no urgency for it. Moments later, the surrounding space began to fill. More units poured out of hyperspace—hundreds, then thousands—assembling into precise, disciplined formations. Heavy cruisers formed deep wedges, poised for a direct assault. Destroyers and frigates enclosed them in shifting defensive rings, their sensors sweeping the void for the first signs of enemy response. Farther out, at the very edge of visibility, swarms of carriers unfolded, each capable of releasing thousands of strike fighters at a moment’s notice. Between them, nearly invisible, drifted electronic warfare vessels and logistical support ships, prepared for a prolonged campaign with no retreat.
At the very heart of this forming armada, two structures appeared—monumental pyramids of perfect geometric symmetry. Their surfaces were smooth, dark, almost entirely absorbing light, as if they did not fully belong to this dimension.
They were anchoring units—artifacts of time and space, technology of the Dun.
Their purpose was not combat, but preparation. Once the fleet secured a stable position within the system, the pyramids would break formation and descend upon selected planets or moons. There, their transmission cores would activate, establishing a permanent bridge between military installations and the intergalactic communication network of the Empire. Orraneth would be woven into the structure of Umerium, just as dozens of worlds before it—without the possibility of severing the signal, without any chance of isolation.

The Umerium fleet—assembled in its entirety for the first time in generations. At its core stood twelve armies of the Imperio Sap S. Alongside them advanced three armies of the Tech clan—fully mechanized formations composed of millions of autonomous war machines, deployed with a singular purpose and no path of return. Their presence alone signaled that the Empire had no intention of retreat or compromise.
Along the flanks moved the Thiev clan’s assault armies—fluid and unpredictable, ready to slip through any weakness in the enemy’s defenses. Behind them held position the forces of Corso—dense, heavy, built for combat at the shortest range, where war ceases to be an abstraction. Binding it all together were the command units of the Armonia and Hollyv clans, issuing orders, synchronizing time, and holding the fleet in a single rhythm, as if it were one living organism.
At the very center of this power stood the Gorkata—the command vessel.
The largest warship of the Empire, a Dominion-Prime class entity, designed not merely for battle, but for the orchestration of wars. Within its vast interior lay shipyards, command centers, strategic archives, and reactors. The Gorkata did not escort the fleet. The fleet orbited it.
On the main bridge, twilight reigned—broken only by the holographic projection of the Orraneth system. Planets rotated in silence, moons traced their trajectories, and the masking fields of Brusan pulsed like a living organism that had just sensed danger. Officers stood motionless at their stations, focused, aware that they were witnessing a moment that would be etched into the history of the Empire—regardless of the outcome.
The Gorkata emitted the first synchronization pulse. The fleet responded as a single entity.
The invasion had begun.

From the very beginning, the Emperor did not seek the annihilation of Brusan. His intent was to absorb their civilization into the structures of the Empire—to subjugate Brusa and transform its inhabitants into yet another clan, as had been done with dozens of worlds before. In official doctrine, this process was called integration.
In practice, it did not require physical destruction or the outright prohibition of tradition. The Empire favored far subtler methods: the controlled evolution of culture, the gradual shifting of meaning, the slow reconstruction of narrative. Local rituals remained intact, yet their significance was reinterpreted. Symbols were preserved—but their purpose was altered.

Propaganda functioned as a long-term adaptive process. What meaning did time hold for Homo Deus? Conquered civilizations, once absorbed into the Empire, slowly incorporated its doctrines into everyday life—first as a useful addition, later as an unquestioned foundation of order. In the end, the glory of the Empire was no longer imposed from without. It became part of the local identity.
Most civilizations yielded to this process—not because they were broken, but because, over time, they ceased to perceive any distinction between their own traditions and imperial doctrine.
Brusa was the exception.
They rejected every will imposed upon them, accepting only their own—a will they, as a proud civilization, imposed upon other worlds they encountered. In this, they were not so different from the Empire itself. They refused all transformation, allowed no interference in their narratives or symbols. Their resistance was not one of open rebellion—it took the form of deliberate closure, a refusal to participate in a process that, on other worlds, sometimes concluded without a single shot, though at times quite the opposite.
It was this refusal that, after centuries of patience and failed attempts, drew the full attention of the Empire to a single, decisive point.

The Orraneth star system, Murakka Galaxy.
In this region of space, light fades more quickly—as if it refuses to bear witness to what is coming. For decades, the Umerium Empire had sought to uncover the truth about the planet Brusa—an oceanic world concealed behind a veil of impenetrable technology. Hundreds of spies had infiltrated the enigmatic system, yet most vanished without a trace. The reports from the few who returned were as fragile as glass: fragmented signals, ambiguous data, too many unknowns.
Brusa remained a blank space on the maps of the galaxy.
And nothing provoked greater fury in the Emperor than the absence of knowledge.

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