Forge Era, Year Seventeen. Crestfall's labs buzzed with a new hum—phase space tech, birthed from the Tactical Wormhole's bones. A Steelborn scientist, circuits alight with fervor, stood before Jarek in Crestspire's command spire. "It's space itself, Jarek," he said, voice crackling with excitement. "We twist it—fold it into weapons, armor, every damn rig we've got. Phase a bullet through a hull, a Rib through a wall—matter bends to us." Jarek's optics flared, a hungry grin splitting his steel face. "Unexpected results, huh? Build it—fast." This wasn't just good; it was a game-changer. He greenlit it on the spot, resources pouring like molten steel.
Meanwhile, the Tau's smug voices crackled over comms, fresh from the orc war. "Your fleet's got teeth," one said, tone dripping with false cheer. "Millions of orcs—gone in one clash. Impressive." Jarek leaned back, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He hadn't expected much from the Elephant Fleet—those patched-up Pale Crest relics crewed by broken Black Crest grunts. But millions dead? "Not bad," he rasped, optics glinting with dark pride. The Tau sounded pleased—too pleased. "Fooled 'em good," he muttered, satisfaction warming his circuits. Let them think they'd seen his best.
The Tau kept their word—at first. A third of the ore haul had landed, but the rest? Excuses piled up like scrap. "Delays," they whined. "Logistics." The promised galaxy? Vanished into the void. Jarek's steel fist clenched, a growl in his throat. "Dishonest rats," he spat. He'd fight if they stiffed him—Space Hegemony didn't reward trust. His Forge Coefficient hit 24—one galaxy churned out troops like twenty-four. With Riftgates humming and phase tech brewing, the Tau weren't a threat; they were prey.
Year Eighteen dawned. Namu's population surged past ten billion—Steelborn flooding through wormholes, turning barren rocks into steel hives. "New tier secured," Jarek said, voice thick with triumph, holo-maps spinning. The Elephant Fleet limped back from the Tau's war—fifty ships left of a hundred, hulls scarred and smoking. "Rough out there," a Black Crest captain rasped over comms, voice hollow but steady. "Orcs hit hard—half's gone." Jarek nodded, optics cold. "You held. Good." Their losses didn't sting—those rigs were junk anyway. The Tau's ore had already paid for more.
Across the void, Tau brass gathered, their flat faces smug in a dimly lit war room. "We've cracked 'em," a Wind Clan officer boasted, slamming a fist on the table. "Their tech—ours now." A Fire Clan analyst smirked, tapping a salvaged Pale Crest wreck. "Scientists can't reverse it yet, but it's close—barely ahead of us." Another laughed, voice sharp. "Ten thousand ships—we'd wipe their empire clean." They sneered at old reports—spies hyping Steelborn might. "Exaggerated nonsense," the officer snapped. "Three years—they're dust." Confidence swelled; they'd misread the bait for the beast.
Fleets massed on the Tau's edge—ships and supplies piling near Crestfall's borders. The orc riots had faded, their worlds licking wounds. "Now's our shot," a Tai Clan general growled, eyes glinting. "Recoup, then roll 'em." Jarek saw it coming. "Warlike little pricks," he muttered, voice laced with contempt. The Tau preached honor—Shang Shang whatever—but their hands itched for blood. In Space Hegemony, everyone did. "They'll crack early," he said, a dark thrill in his tone. "Bring it."
He flicked on Absolute Loyalty, the player lattice buzzing. "Human League's at it again," one voice crackled. "Chaos Demons—Warp filth." Another laughed, wild. "Four peddlers of evil gods! I'd love a crack at Slaanesh." "You're begging for corruption, freak," a third shot back, sharp. "Evil gods'll gut the universe." "Emperor's got it—Golden Throne's watching," a loyalist barked, smug. "Join us—serve the light!" "Shove your hymns," the wild one snapped. "Planets are rotting—Warp's twisting 'em inside out." Jarek's optics narrowed. Demons, psionics—he'd never seen them. Elephants, Tau—all tech, no Warp tricks. "Phase cannons'd shred 'em," he mused, voice low. "Or a death ray. Evil or not, steel's truth."
Crestfall's forges roared—phase tech prototypes sparked, Riftgates pulsed. Namu gleamed, a steel crown. The Tau thought they'd sized him up; Jarek knew they'd choke on it. War loomed, and he'd be ready—cannons blazing, empire unyielding.