Forge Era, Year Eighteen. The void trembled as 7,000 Tau ships of the Eastern Strike Force surged toward Crestfall, a gleaming armada cutting through the warp's haze. Lao Jun stood on his flagship's bridge, flat face creased with pride, optics sweeping the endless steel tide. "Seven thousand strong," he muttered, voice thick with certainty. "What fool doubts our victory?" The silence from their lost 3,000-ship vanguard barely scratched his confidence. Warp was a fickle beast—signals dropped, ships veered off course. "Subspace glitches," he growled, dismissing the unease prickling his gut. "They'll turn up."
"Contact the vanguard," he barked, leaning over the comms console. "I want their triumph—Vortex Verge taken, Duskreach next." His fleet commander nodded, fingers flying across controls. The Tau's plan was clockwork—3,000 ships to seize Vortex Verge, then push deeper into Crestfall. Victory was a given; their Path demanded it. But the comms stayed dead. "No signal, sir!" a tech stammered, voice spiking with panic. "Nothing!" Lao Jun's eyes narrowed. "Again," he snapped, fist clenching. "Find them!" Another sweep—silence. "Comms failure?" he muttered, doubt creeping in like rust. "Three thousand ships—gone? No jammer could hide that."
His mind raced, centuries of Tau conquest flashing—never had they lost a fleet this way. Three thousand ships could raze a galaxy; they didn't vanish. "Something's wrong," he growled, voice low, a shiver of fear he wouldn't name. "To Vortex Verge—full speed!" He'd take all 7,000—no delays, no dreams of disaster. Deep down, he feared it anyway. What if? The question gnawed, but he shoved it aside, optics blazing. "We'll see for ourselves."
Across Crestfall, Jarek knew they were coming. Steelborn sensors—phase-tech sharp—tracked every Tau move, their warp signatures glowing like flares. "Seven thousand," he rasped from Crestspire, holo-maps pulsing with red dots. "Bold little rats." He didn't strike—not yet. Let them plunge deep, overconfident, into his web. Scare them off now? Waste of a trap. "They'll bleed closer," he muttered, a feral grin splitting his steel face. Namu's forges churned, Living Steel ships waited—Jarek played for keeps.
The Tau fleet breached Crestfall's edge, asteroid belts glinting in their scopes. Nothing—no Steelborn ships, no vanguard wrecks—just silence and scars. Military outposts smoldered, mining rigs cracked open, pulse burns marking Tau handiwork. "They fought here," Lao Jun said, voice tight, scanning the debris. "Wins—but where are they?" The emptiness clawed at him—3,000 ships should've left a trail. "Keep moving," he ordered, optics darting. "Vortex Verge—answers wait there."
On Vortex Verge, Elephants held the line, dirt-stained and defiant beside Steelborn Ribs. "Seven thousand Tau ships," an Elephant grunt muttered, voice low, overhearing a Rib officer's flat report. "We're dead." His buddy snorted, rifle propped on a trench wall. "Look at these tin cans—they're not sweating it." The Ribs stood still, optics blank—no fear, no rush. "Expressionless clanks," the grunt grumbled, half-laughing, half-cursing. "How do you read that?" Seven thousand ships—enough to crush worlds—but the Ribs didn't budge.
"Run?" the buddy asked, eyes flicking to the horizon. The grunt's jaw tightened. Six years back, Pale Crest lords fled when odds turned—he'd bolted too, survival trumping all. Now? Different. "Run where?" he snapped. "Tau'll roll us if we break." He had a home now—100 square meters, a slab of steel and hope he'd never dreamed of under Pale Crest. "My family's here," he growled, gripping his gun. "I'm not losing that." Rage simmered—Tau's lies, their slander about stolen kids, their fists last battle. "They owe us blood."
He glanced at the Ribs—silent, steady. Last time, Steelborn saved his squad, Scourgers tearing Tau apart. "These iron bastards don't lose," he said, touching his nose, a flicker of faith sparking. "They're not running—we won't either." His buddy nodded, grim. "Jarek's got a plan—gotta." The grunt's voice hardened. "I believe he'll win."
Above, the Tau's 7,000 hit Vortex Verge's orbit—then froze. Steelborn ships erupted from nowhere—Living Steel hulls phasing in, gauss cannons blazing. "Ambush!" a Tau captain screamed, voice shredding as his frigate buckled. Jarek's fleet—5,000 strong, hidden in Crestfall's depths—struck like a hammer. Tau ships burned, too slow, too brittle. "Dishonest cowards!" Lao Jun roared, slamming his console as green gauss fire ripped through his lines. The irony stung—he'd run from honor first.
On the ground, Scourgers charged—tripod legs pounding, claws slashing Tau trenches. Elephants surged beside them, rifles spitting fury. "For our brothers!" a sergeant bellowed, voice raw, reclaiming lost ground. Jarek watched, holo-maps alive with chaos. "Seven thousand?" he rasped, laugh cold. "Sparrows to the eagle." Absolute Loyalty buzzed—players wild. "Tau's done!" one howled. "Steelborn's eating!" Jarek's optics flared. "Believe you'll win?" he growled. "Watch me prove it."