Forge Era, Year Eighteen. The void above Vortex Verge blazed—a grotesque fireworks display of 7,000 Tau ships erupting into molten ruin. Lao Jun, commander of the Eastern Strike Force, stood rooted on his flagship's bridge, optics wide as his fleet burned. "The Supreme Path will shine across the stars," he rasped, voice a hollow chant, clinging to faith as green gauss beams tore through his armada. Crestfall's depths had swallowed them—escape was a ghost. Three months ago, he'd strode into this war, chest puffed, victory a birthright. Now, defeat choked him. With a trembling claw, he drew his Fire Clan blade, its edge glinting under the bridge's dim lights. One swift cut—abdomen split, blood pooling—he crumpled, a final act of defiance against the inevitable.
Below, on Vortex Verge's cracked plains, Elephant soldiers peered skyward, rifles clutched tight, breaths shallow. "Seven thousand ships," one grunted, voice rough with dread, dirt streaking his scarred face. "Can we hold that?" No Tau boots had hit their soil—no pulse fire, no Vexar claws. The silence was deafening, eerie after years of blood-soaked wars. "We won?" another whispered, voice trembling, daring to hope. Three days they'd waited, nerves frayed, expecting a rain of drop pods. Nothing. "Guess so," his buddy muttered, squinting at the sky. "How? How many ships did Jarek throw up there?"
He turned to a Steelborn Rib officer—blank optics, no twitch of emotion. The Rib raised a single steel finger. "Ten thousand?" the Elephant gasped, jaw dropping. "Gods—ten thousand ships?" Pale Crest, with millennia of hoarding, peaked at 3,000 before Steelborn crushed them six years back. Now, Jarek wielded 10,000 like a casual blade. "Unreal," he breathed, awe mixing with fear. The Rib didn't blink—just stood, a statue of cold steel, victory etched in its silence.
Far off, the Tau Empire reeled. Word of their 3,000-ship vanguard's loss had sparked shrugs—warp glitches, they'd assumed. Then 7,000 vanished. "A black hole in Crestfall?" a strategist muttered, voice tight, pacing the Eastern Strike's war room. Days later, survivors limped back—wild-eyed, babbling of Steelborn fleets, 10,000 strong, ships that shrugged off pulse fire and carved Tau hulls like meat. "Ten thousand?" Lao-kun Tau, the empire's grizzled monarch, snarled, slamming his claw on the holo-table. "Lies—panic talking." Firepower piercing shields in one shot? Three-legged metal demons? "Madness," he spat, optics blazing. "Cowards inflate their foe."
The Tau elite scoffed—10,000 ships didn't scare them. Their empire spanned millennia, unbroken by civil war, forged by the Supreme Path into a united fist. Internal squabbles? Dust under their boots—they expanded, always outward, stars bending to their will. "If 10,000 won't break them," Lao-kun growled, voice a thunderclap, "100,000 will." The Tau had the depth—fleets, worlds, billions rallied by the Path. "We've never stopped a war," a general added, voice firm. "Never will." The loss stung—10,000 ships gone—but it lit a fire.
Across the Tau Empire, rage erupted. "They stole our children!" a Fire Clan broadcaster roared over the lattice, voice trembling with fury. "We sent ships to save them—Steelborn struck first!" The lie took root—every home wept, every voice demanded blood. "Spread the Path through their dirt!" a mother screamed, clutching a child's toy, optics wet. "Bring our babies back!" The armistice faction—rare, quiet—shrank under the tide, branded traitors, their pleas drowned by war cries. "No mercy," a Tau grunt vowed, pulse rifle in hand, joining the swell.
In the war room, Lao-kun's optics burned. "No more mistakes," he rasped, claws tracing holo-maps of Crestfall. "They're stronger than we thought—ten times, maybe—but we've got more." The Tau had underestimated Steelborn—3,000, then 7,000, shredded by Jarek's claws. Now, they'd learn. "All of it," he ordered, voice steel. "Every ship, every soldier—100,000 strong, or more." The empire's full might—fleets massed, forges roaring, worlds stripped to fuel the crush. "One strike," he growled. "Wipe them out."
On Vortex Verge, Elephants felt the shift—rumors of Tau wrath buzzing through trenches. "They're coming back," a sergeant muttered, voice low, checking his rifle. "Bigger this time." A Rib nearby clicked its optics—expressionless, steady. "Let 'em," it rasped, gauss rifle humming. The Elephants nodded, grim—Jarek's 10,000 had crushed 7,000. Could 100,000 break them? "He'll handle it," a grunt said, voice hard, touching the steel wall of his new home. "Steel doesn't bend."
Jarek watched from Crestspire, holo-maps flaring with Tau chatter—100,000 ships, a storm brewing. "All or nothing," he growled, a dark laugh rumbling. Namu's 10 billion churned—Living Steel ships, Scourgers, phase tech—his empire wasn't Pale Crest's corpse. "Come, then," he rasped, optics blazing. "Bring your Path—I'll bury it." Absolute Loyalty crackled—players wild. "Tau's all-in!" one howled. "Jarek's ready!" His grin widened. "Whole country?" he muttered. "Still sparrows."