Forge Era, Year Eighteen. Steelborn's war machine roared—Namu Verge's forges blazed, pumping out Living Steel ships and Ribs at a relentless pace. Resources flooded in—Tau's own tribute, now twisted against them, fueling Jarek's crusade. "Full throttle," Jarek growled from Crestspire, holo-maps flaring with production stats. Namu Verge, once a fledgling colony, now churned—less than Crestfall's core, sure, but a beast unleashed. The Sixth Fleet—10,000 fresh ships—rolled off its lines, joining the Fourth from Steelheart and Fifth from Crestfall. "Tau won't fall?" Jarek rasped, optics blazing. "Then we don't stop—bomb them to ash."
Across Tau space, desperation reigned. "All clans—Fire, Wind, every soul who can fight—front lines, now!" Lao-kun Tau barked, voice a jagged snarl, claws slashing holo-orders. Every system echoed—recruits crammed into ships, pulse rifles thrust into trembling claws. Millennia of conquest had stretched the Tau thin—reserves bled dry, this war their gamble. "One shot," Lao-kun growled, optics cold. "Absolute victory—or we're done." Steelborn's endless tide—Ribs „resurrecting," ships unyielding—demanded a final blow.
Graviton Verge burned—a scarred hell under five Gs, craters piled with wrecks, Tau's mostly. Hills of twisted nano-steel and Vexar bones loomed—Steelborn Scourgers carved through, relentless. "Demons!" a Fire Clan grunt hissed, voice shaking, pulse carbine trembling as a Scourger's gauss cannon vaporized his squad. "Reapers!" another wailed, photon missile roaring—100-meter crater, smoke choking the air—yet a Scourger strode out, Living Steel gleaming, tripod legs thudding. It charged—claws slashing, five Tau dead—before self-destructing, a fireball swallowing ten more. A survivor, arm gone, stared from a med-pod—mech-prosthesis humming, optics haunted. "Nightmares," he whispered, voice a ghost. "Every night."
Tau clung to hate—homeland, lies of stolen kin, the Supreme Path. "No retreat!" a commander roared, voice raw, rallying his trench. "For the stars—for the Path!" A sniper's particle beam answered—his head burst, blood spraying. A lieutenant took over, crouching in ravines, voice crackling over comms: "One falls, more rise—50,000 ships are coming! Steelborn's doom!" Eighty thousand ships already bled—50,000 was their last card, Tau's final throw.
Steelborn didn't flinch. "More," Jarek rasped, watching wormholes hum—20 on Graviton Verge, three Ribs a pop, endless steel flooding in. "They want a fight? Bury 'em." The First Fleet—10,000 ships—held Rydeka Verge, Tau's front crumbling. Then, 50,000 Tau ships warped in—railguns blazing, a wall of blue pulse fire. "Surrender!" a Tau admiral crowed, voice booming over open comms. "Join the Path—your sins forgiven!" Balance snapped—Tau grinned, tasting victory.
On Graviton Verge, Elephants roared beside Ribs. "Fifty thousand?!" a sergeant bellowed, voice shaking dirt, rifle spitting. "Jarek'll crush 'em!" A Rib nodded—optics blank, gauss humming. "Numbers don't win," it rasped. Above, Tau ships swarmed—50,000 vs. 10,000—but Steelborn held. Moonshrikes danced, Mach 50 streaks shredding Tau frigates, shields shrugging railgun slugs. "How?!" a Tau captain screamed, voice cracking as a gauss beam gutted his bridge—crew ash in seconds.
Lao-kun watched, optics narrowing—50,000 should've ended it. "One strike," he'd vowed, claws flexing. But Steelborn adapted—wormholes poured Ribs, Scourgers boarded Tau hulks, Living Steel laughed at pulse fire. "They're losing," a Tau aide stammered, holo-icons blinking out—dozens, hundreds. "No," Lao-kun growled, denial thick. "We've got more—push!" Fifty thousand became 49,000—then 45,000—Steelborn's tide unyielding. "How do you lose 50,000?" he rasped, voice fraying, optics dimming.
Jarek grinned—holo-maps alive with Tau ruin. "Fifty thousand?" he snarled, laugh cold. "Dust." Namu Verge churned—Sixth Fleet joined, 20,000 total now, more brewing. "Endless," he rasped, claws tapping. "Their Path's a grave." Absolute Loyalty erupted—players wild. "Tau's toast!" one howled. "Jarek's a god!" His optics flared—50,000 ships, 50 billion Tau—numbers meant nothing. Steelborn would grind them all.