Forge Era, Year Eighteen. The Tau war room buzzed with disbelief—another Steelborn fleet, 10,000 strong, carved through Northspire. "Impossible," Lao-kun Tau rasped, claws scraping his holo-table, optics flickering with denial. "Another fleet?" He'd braced for coalitions—wars weren't solo acts—but this? Jarek's Steelborn had swallowed his 10,000-ship Eastern Strike in weeks, then hit back with 20,000 across Tau space. "They're not small fry," he growled, voice low, a bitter pill lodging in his throat. "Send the Third Legion—10,000 ships. Don't engage—stall them."
The Third Legion—Tau's reserve hammer—lurched into Crestfall's fringe, dug in with orbital forts and railguns. "Home turf," Lao-kun muttered, optics narrowing. "We've got the edge—planetary grids, supply lines." Ten thousand against ten thousand—tricky, but winnable. Five days held—then cracks. "Another fleet!" a scout screamed, voice shredding over comms. "Ten thousand more—new signatures!" Lao-kun's claws froze mid-tap. "Illusion?" he barked, grasping at straws. Tau intel was Swiss cheese—galaxies near Steelborn were sieves now. A holo-feed flickered—Living Steel hulls, gauss cannons glowing. "No trick," he rasped, optics dimming. "Monsters."
"How many ships do they have?" a general stammered, voice trembling, staring at the third fleet—30,000 total now tearing into Tau space. The war room fell silent, optics darting, dread thick as smoke. Tau poured ships into the grinder—fleets chewed up like paper—but Steelborn kept coming, relentless, durable. "Our plan's shot," Lao-kun growled, claws clenching. "Split forces—block them all!" The front buckled—Tau ships disposable, Steelborn's eternal—firepower a league apart.
Graviton Verge loomed—a hulking planet, five times Earth's gravity, a strategic linchpin now a slaughterhouse. Tau flooded it—millions of Fire Clan grunts, pulse rifles spitting, backed by vassal races: Vexar claw-beasts, hulking Gorath tank-breeds, wiry Skreel tech-thralls. "Hold the line!" a Tau captain roared, voice hoarse, nano-armor dented as gauss rounds punched through his squad. Steelborn Ribs marched—gauss rifles blazing green death, Living Steel shrugging off plasma. "They don't die!" a Vexar hissed, claws snapping a Rib's arm—only for it to reform, optics cold, firing point-blank.
Rumors spread—Steelborn reborn by sorcery. "Killed 'em—back they come!" a Gorath rumbled, voice quaking, plasma axe fizzling against a Scourger's tripod legs. Tau morale bled—every day, commanders barked, "Reinforcements tomorrow—millions more!" Lies or hope, it didn't matter—Steelborn kept coming, a tide no dam could hold. "We'll win!" a Tau lieutenant shouted, voice cracking, pulse carbine overheating as Ribs closed in—endless, unyielding.
Steelborn's secret wasn't magic—Living Steel patched wounds mid-fight. A blown-off limb? It regrew. Shattered torso? Tech-rites fused it. Too broken? New Ribs stepped through—tactical wormholes, Jarek's latest edge. Twenty micro-gates hummed on Graviton Verge—stable, compact—three Ribs at a time, day and night, flooding the field. "More," Jarek rasped from Crestspire, holo-maps alive with Tau collapse. "Drown 'em." Namu's 10 billion churned—ships, soldiers, Scourgers—Steelborn's well ran deep.
Graviton Verge was a meat grinder—both sides bled, but Tau broke first. "Thirty billion sent," Lao-kun snarled, slamming his war table, "and we don't own it?" Early on, he'd spread forces thin—galaxy garrisons to choke orc riots, a lingering thorn. "Safe," he'd thought—until Steelborn hit. Now, the front screamed—too late for caution. "All in," he barked, voice a jagged edge. "No more games—these skeletons heal too fast. Mobilize everything—now."
Tau scrambled—50 billion across 60 galaxies, ships massing, worlds stripped bare. "Suppress them," Lao-kun growled, claws tracing holo-lines. "End this—or we're gutted." Steelborn's momentum was a blade at their throat—Graviton Verge a warning. "They dared invade us," he rasped, optics blazing, "and they keep coming." His staff nodded, grim—victory or ruin, no middle ground.
On Graviton Verge, a Tau trench buckled—Ribs poured in, gauss fire carving through. "Fall back!" a Fire Clan grunt screamed, voice lost in the roar, tripping over a Vexar corpse. A Scourger loomed—tripod legs thudding, claw snagging his armor, lifting him like a rag. "No end!" he wailed, pulse shot fizzling—then silence, skull crushed. Elephants fought beside Ribs, rifles blazing. "For Jarek!" a sergeant roared, voice raw, reclaiming a ridge. "They started it—we finish it!"
Jarek watched, optics flaring—30,000 ships, millions of Ribs, Graviton Verge a proving ground. "Steady stream," he growled, laugh cold. "They'll choke on it." Absolute Loyalty buzzed—players rabid. "Tau's drowning!" one howled. "Steelborn's infinite!" His claws tapped—Namu's forges roared, wormholes pulsed. "Invade us?" he rasped. "I'll bury their empire."