Jarek flicked on the player lattice—Absolute Loyalty—his steel fingers tapping the holo-feed with a faint clink. Crestfall's forges hummed below, a steady pulse of Living Steel and purpose, thirteen years since Rageclaw's empire fell. "Tau—anyone got intel?" he typed, optics scanning the replies. The lattice buzzed, then settled into a flat void. "Tau? Never heard of 'em," one player shot back, voice tinny through the comms. "New blood?" another guessed. Space Hegemony teemed with known players—Humans, Eldar, Greenskin Orcs, names etched in blood and steel. Even Xenos freaks had their rumors. But the Tau? A ghost in the chatter, unseen, unheard.
He leaned back, circuits whirring. Two years back, the Tau had rolled into Crestfall—blue-skinned, flat-faced, strut oozing from their wiry frames. "Masters of the stars," one had crowed, chest puffed like it meant something. Jarek's lip had curled then, and it did now. Masters? Their fame didn't reach past their own hulls. A thousand worlds, they bragged—a speck in a game where galaxies were the prize. Young, he thought, a metallic rasp in his throat. A millennium since their first ships, and they thought it grand. Steelborn had forged Crestfall from nothing in fifteen years—Redstone to galactic fist. Tau were pups barking at giants.
Their pride itched at him, though. Jarek punched the lattice again. "Tau—details. Anything." Static, then scraps: "Young race, quick climb, think they're hot," one said. "Never crossed 'em," another added. No one knew them—proof their "mastery" was hollow. Still, they'd swaggered into Crestfall, offering trade, dumping ores cheap—thorium, iridium, fuel for his forges. Jarek had nodded then. "Sell," he'd told their envoys, voice cold. "Cheap." They'd leapt at it, ships unloading stacks while Ribs watched, optics red. But tech? Locked tight. Wherever Tau boots hit dirt—Shatterpoint docks, Crestspire yards—Steelborn loomed. "No touching," a Rib snapped once, shoving a Tau hand from a Pulse Rifle rack. They grinned, backed off, but their eyes hunted—Living Steel seams, Riftgate coils, engine hums. "How're you so fast?" one pressed. Jarek stared, silent. Ascension burned knowledge into steel; no books, no leaks. A year of prying, and they'd snagged nothing.
Frustration brewed. "We rule a thousand worlds," a Tau envoy hissed, voice tight, a year in. "You've got two—share engines, take our ways." Jarek's optics darkened. Two? Crestfall was a fortress, Redstone a forge-heart. Tau's thousand were a sprawl, not a blade. "Keep your ways," he said, flat. "Tech's mine." They bristled, smiles thinning, but kept trading—ores flowing, their hunger growing. Jarek saw it: envy dressed as pride, a play for his secrets. He let them think they had a shot, pocketing their goods.
Steelborn surged. Forge Era Year Sixteen hit, and Crestfall shone—rebuilt from Pale Crest ruin into a steel titan. Strength climbed to 300,000, Jarek's Forge Coefficient spiking to twenty-two. Four years since Rageclaw's head rolled, and the empire was six times mightier. Tau ores—bought dirt-cheap—fed the beast, Living Steel spires piercing the sky. Jarek's gaze stretched outward. Namu, twenty light-years off, beckoned—a double-star system, eleven barren rocks in its grip. Harsh, dead, perfect. Second-gen non-inertial drives cut the trek to three jumps—days, not decades. July, Year Sixteen, and the first colony fleet hit Namu's ice, Ribs planting flags in silence.
Namu wasn't soft. Gas giants churned with poison winds; rocky worlds roasted or froze. Flesh would've died screaming, but Steelborn laughed—Ascension made them eternal, mechanical, unbreakable. Gas giant habs? Done by Year Twelve. Namu's eleven were a breeze, their brutality a forge for machines. "Third system locked," Jarek muttered, holo-maps spinning Crestfall, Redstone, Namu—his crown sharpening. Crestfall's fleets—three thousand strong—idled over Shatterpoint, guns quiet but loaded. Riftgates hummed, soldiers stepping through test portals, a promise of more.
Tau didn't clap. "You're thin—two galaxies, weak," an envoy sneered, voice edged. Jarek's circuits buzzed. Weak? Crestfall's steel didn't bend; Namu's grip was iron. Their taunt stank of fear—or desperation. Then a comm pinged, stark: War declared: Steelborn Empire. Jarek's jaw tightened, a low growl in his steel throat. Tau, with their patched hulls and glass swagger, dared to swing.
He flicked Absolute Loyalty live. "Tau declared war," he typed. The lattice flared. "Who?" one asked. "Never heard of," another said. "Small fry?" a third jabbed. Jarek's lip twitched. Small fry with teeth—or delusions. Tau data was thin—trade logs, boasts. A thousand worlds, stretched wide, their ships angular and frail next to Living Steel. No Riftgates, no Ascension—just numbers and noise. A grind to crush, not a terror to dodge. "Ribs—prep the fleets," he barked, voice rough. "Namu's secure—hit their edges." Crestfall's yards roared, Riftgates pulsing. Tau wanted a fight; they'd get steel—and ash.