The Tau gaped at the Exorcist-class cruiser, its 7.3-kilometer hulk casting a shadow over Shatterpoint's docks. Their flat faces lit up, joy bubbling through their ranks like a spark hitting dry fuel. "They've actually sent it!" a Tau officer crowed, voice trembling with glee. "A secret fleet from the Steelborn Empire—never seen this beast before!" Another clapped his hands, optics wide. "Warp tech, smoother than ours—stronger, but not by much!" Smug laughter rippled through them. They thought they'd pulled it off—tricked Jarek into showing his hand. Fools didn't know they were staring at a relic, a Pale Crest hand-me-down crewed by broken Elephants.
Jarek paced Crestspire's command deck, 300 light-years away from the action. The Elephant Fleet—those creaking, patched hulks—trudged toward a Tau galaxy overrun by Greenskin Orcs. The Tau had lied about the distance, claiming it was "near." "Cute," Jarek growled, a smirk curling his steel lips, optics glinting with dark amusement. Let them think they'd lured out his best. The real Steelborn might—Living Steel ships, Riftgates humming—sat safe in Crestfall's shadow, untouchable.
The orc-ridden galaxy swarmed with chaos—hundreds of millions of Greenskins, their scrap ships roaring through the void. Old Sage legends called them war machines, bred for carnage, their "I think" tech turning junk into death. A rusted heap became a fighter; a pile of bolts, a cannon. A hundred million were a headache; a billion, a nightmare. The Tau, their Wind and Fire clans bled thin, couldn't hold the line. They'd begged Jarek in, tossing triple ore and a galaxy as bait. He'd taken it—not for them, but for Namu.
Crestfall's vaults groaned with Tau loot—thorium stacks, iridium slabs, a fortune to forge. Jarek's voice rumbled, thick with greed. "Suckers—keep it coming." Namu, his third system, drank it dry. Holo-feeds pinged:
"Namu colonized."
"Strength: +10,000."
"Tech lottery granted."
"Spin," he barked. The system hummed, then flashed:
"Acquired: Grand Realm Technology."
A Grand Realm—moon-sized, a lattice of light-bending steel—sucked starfire into a river of power. In peace, it fueled forges; in war, it could torch gas giants with a flick. "Energy's ours," Jarek rasped, a hungry edge in his tone. Tau ores would build it—sweet irony. Namu's growth spiked, a steel tide rolling fast.
But the real prize stood on Namu's cracked plains: the Tactical Wormhole Machine. A hulking, clumsy giant—thousands of square meters of coils and cores—it was raw, unpolished, a first step. It could barely open a gate big enough for one Steelborn, no gear, no mechs. Useless for war, gold for colonies. Ships couldn't haul enough bodies to tame a galaxy, but this could flood Namu with Ribs. Jarek strode into the test yard, dust swirling, optics locked on the beast. "Light it up," he snapped, voice tight with anticipation.
A Rib scientist—circuits buzzing, frame worn from years of nonstop grind—stepped forward. "Test in thirty," he said, voice shaking, a mix of exhaustion and fire. No Steelborn needed sleep, but this one had poured his soul into it, a spark of will beyond cold code. The countdown rolled:
"Twenty-nine…"
"Twenty-eight…"
Jarek's steel chest thrummed, tension coiling. At zero, the machine screamed—space tore open, a jagged portal flaring blue. Twenty light-years away, Crestfall's twin gate answered. A bird darted through, wings frantic, then dropped dead in Namu's poison air. The scientist's voice cracked, raw with triumph. "It's alive—twenty light-years, we crossed it!" Jarek's optics blazed, a rare grin splitting his face. "Scale it—drown Namu in steel."
Far off, the Elephant Fleet slammed into orc hulks, Tau scribbling notes on "Steelborn secrets"—blissfully blind. Jarek didn't care. Their war was their mess. Crestfall's true strength—Living Steel, Riftgates, the Grand Realm—grew in silence. The Tau thought they'd won a peek; Jarek knew he'd taken their future. "Good work," he said to the scientist, voice softening for once. "Rest." The Rib nodded, optics dimming with relief. Steel ruled—and it was his.