The bridge of the Excalibur seemed to hum louder as another shuttle was received in the main hangar bay, and Leia could feel them approaching before they stepped through the command doors. She did not turn at first—her violet eyes remained fixed on the dazzling sight of the fleet that hovered in perfect formation just beyond the viewport. Maelstrom-class battlecruisers, Venator II-class destroyers, Lucrehulk-class Super Carriers, and the countless smaller warships pulsed like the arteries of a vast mechanical god, waiting only for a thought, a whisper of intent, to surge forward into conquest.
They were the Empire's spearhead. The tip of a blade honed across twenty years of galactic peace, built on discipline, loyalty, and the absolute obedience to the God-Emperor.
And now, more of his chosen had arrived.
The door hissed open, the air pressurizing around the presence of those who had entered—not by design, but by instinct. Even the ship felt them.
The first to step through was Laris Varran, the most methodical and devastatingly disciplined Knight Leia had ever met. His armor was stripped of any ornamentation, as if vanity itself would be an insult to his purpose. Matte black, edged only in subtle chrome—sharp, lean, and perfectly fitted. His helmet remained under one arm, his expression unreadable. A precise man, one who treated combat not as art, but as mathematics—angles, footwork, tempo, prediction.
Leia had bested him only once, and only by using a significant boost of raw power through the Force. Had she fought him again, he might've anticipated that, adjusted, calculated for it. He always adapted. That made him dangerous.
Behind him came the fourth… the Unknown.
He wore the same battle robes as them, tailored for movement and defense, the color a smooth obsidian with streaks of deep silver that shimmered when the light caught just right. A fully sealed helmet masked his face, a featureless, mirrored surface devoid of insignia, markings, or voice modulator. He said nothing as he entered, nor did he offer even the faintest bow or acknowledgment.
Leia's lip twitched almost imperceptibly. She knew him. Or rather, had known him. He'd fought beside her and Sors during one of the Blood Wastes campaigns, silent and efficient, a ghost among slaughter. Yet still, he hadn't shared his name. Not his voice. Nothing. It bothered her—but the deeper irritation was that she had no authority to compel him to speak.
Among the Imperial Knights, only the Emperor's Word held true. Not bloodlines. Not service. Not lineage.
And he—this nameless one—had been selected by Darth Vader himself, his appointment approved by the Emperor. That fact, more than anything, burned beneath Leia's skin.
Had she been named the Expedition Commander, she could've exercised command over the others. She could have controlled their deployment, their missions, their priorities. But no—Sors had gotten the better of her in the final simulations, outmaneuvering her in the grand tactical exercises. She still saw his grin in her sleep sometimes.
And here he was again, lounging near the holotable, his arms folded neatly behind his back, posture unnervingly relaxed as always.
"That completes our roster," Sors said, clapping his gloved hands together, the smack echoing through the chamber like a teacher calling a class to attention. "Now then—while I'd normally leave the formalities to vanish in the haze of war, I believe some introductions are in order."
He gestured with one hand, sweeping it lazily toward the masked figure.
"Leia, you've had the pleasure of working alongside him already, but Laris… I believe this will be your first time interacting with our mystery guest."
Leia narrowed her eyes as the masked figure stepped forward, his boots clicking against the polished metal floor. The air around him grew still, not cold—but empty, sterile, like he was a vacuum in the Force. No intent. No emotion. Only presence.
Then he spoke.
"Alan Spacer," the voice was smooth, cultured, modulated yet unmistakably human. "You may refer to me under this name during our deployment together."
A formal nod followed—neither deferential nor arrogant. It was as though the very concept of rank was beneath his concern.
The name meant nothing to Leia. It was clearly an alias, one perhaps meant to seem innocuous, or symbolic in some way she didn't yet understand. But the moment he said it, she felt a familiar tremor ripple through the Force. Like a whisper too quiet to hear brushing against the ear.
Sors smiled, and Leia hated how smug it looked.
"Alan here is our observer, handpicked by the Wrath of the Emperor himself. He is not merely here to witness—but to ensure that what we do here is worthy of the God-Emperor's vision."
A moment of silence passed between the four of them.
Not tension.
Weight.
Every Imperial Knight present had felt it. That same weight they had borne since that fateful Day of Ascendance. Since the stars had shifted. Since the presence of the Emperor had become not just mythos, not just doctrine, but a constant—as real as breath, as eternal as the void.
They were His will made flesh.
And that came with consequences.
Sors's eyes gleamed faintly as he turned toward the holoprojector. It bloomed to life, showing the massive fleet still gathering in orbit. Lines of text scrolled beside the renderings: ship classes, unit complements, logistical support nodes.
"Despite the scale of our fleet," he began, tone growing more formal, "we are not entering a contested theater. This region was chosen specifically by His Holiness for one reason—it is a crucible. A proving ground."
He let that sink in.
"There will be danger," he continued, "but nothing... insurmountable. This mission is not about victory. It is about proof. Proof that we are prepared to carry the Emperor's word beyond the stars. That we can extend His reach not just across our galaxy—but through the Force, across the veil, wherever His enemies may hide."
Leia's jaw tensed.
Every Knight here was a paragon. She the most gifted in the Force, Sors the master of war, Laris the unbreakable warrior. Even the ghost, Alan Spacer, exuded a terrifying composure that made her skin crawl. They were the tip of the Empire's spiritual blade. The ones who would make the first cut into the flesh of the void beyond.
There was pride in that. But also fear.
Not fear of death—no, that had long been purged from them.
Fear of failure. Of disappointing Him.
That thought alone made Leia's stomach churn more than any army ever had.
Sors shut off the display and smiled once more. "Well then. We've introduced ourselves. We know our roles. Let us be about it."
He gave a slight, overly courteous bow toward Leia that she did roll her eyes at this time.
The four of them stood for a long moment at the center of the bridge.
==============================
The edge of the known galaxy.
Not simply the Outer Rim. Beyond it—where stars grew sparse and gas clouds thinned into the abyss. Where the maps of the Empire ended and only theories, legends, and rumors remained. The black here was thick. Hungry.
Aboard the Excalibur, silence had descended across the command bridge as the great vessel floated motionless at the vanguard of the Imperial formation. Leia, Sors, Laris, and the newly identified "Alan Spacer" stood shoulder to shoulder, their gazes fixed forward at the abyss.
Something… moved.
Not physically—no ship, no celestial body, no energy anomaly. But something within the Force, like a black talon clawing at the boundary between worlds. The stars themselves blurred at the edges, like watercolors touched by a trembling hand. The void trembled, as if something immense and furious pressed and attempted to tear it.
And then… it succeeded...
The galaxy tore.
Not in a flash, not in an explosion. No, the fabric of reality simply peeled back, slow, deliberate and crude, as if something monstrous and unseen was dragging its claws through space-time. Ribbons of swirling, blinding energy flared around the breach, tearing open a corridor where no corridor should exist.
Gasps echoed through the organic personnel onboard the fleet. Clones stood transfixed. Even veterans of twenty years stared in stunned reverence. Only the droids were unmoved—calculating, recording, adapting.
Then, a voice echoed through the fleet.
"Proceed in formation. Maximum thrust. All ships—enter the breach."
The command had come from Sors, relayed by every command node down to the last bridge officer.
In perfect, synchronized sequence, thrusters ignited. Blue-white ion trails flared to life. The great behemoths of the Imperial Expeditionary Armada surged forward, engines rumbling like distant thunder. Shields activated, forming a mosaic of translucent blue domes, and weapon systems pulsed with restrained fury.
The Empire was entering the unknown.
==============================
Captain Devrin Malros had patrolled this corridor for three standard years, and in all that time, the Vigilance had never once raised weapons in anger. Illium's corporate elite didn't like the smell of gunmetal near their perfume-laced boardrooms. Security was important, yes, but not too loud.
Now, with the Mass Relay hanging like a monolith in space, the captain's fingers tapped rapidly on the armrest of his command chair. The sensor officer looked up, pale-faced.
"Captain… I'm reading an anomalous mass signature near the relay. Small, reflective… white object. No known configuration matches in the codex."
Devrin leaned forward. "Zoom in. Can we get a visual?"
The viewport shimmered as the cameras focused, displaying a strangely smooth, featureless shape—impossibly still in space, a mote of dust in orbit around the great relay.
The captain's brow furrowed. "It's… just there. Not moving. Not transmitting. Like it's watching."
And then it began.
"CONTACT—ABOVE US! LARGE!" someone screamed from Tactical.
Before Malros could speak, the officer beside him followed up: "Contacts—multiple—port side! Now starboard! All quadrants lighting up, sir!"
Devrin's mouth opened to give the next order, but even his years of professional reserve couldn't stop the stunned whisper:
"…What in the goddess' name—"
The radar screen bloomed red as signal after signal poured into their systems—hundreds, thousands of warships appearing silently into the void, as though space itself was peeling away to make room for them. No relay flare.
The sensor officer turned white as bone.
"Dreadnought classifications—in the hundreds and climbing—cruisers in the thousands—no transponder data—unknown engine signatures—"
Captain Devrin snapped back to himself. "Send a full-spectrum priority burst to Illium Defense Command. Now. Open broadcast."
The communications officer obeyed without hesitation. "Open channel, sir."
Devrin stood, composed despite the sweat on his temple. His voice rang clear across the void.
"This is Captain Devrin Malros of the ISC Vigilance to Illium Defense Command. We are detecting an unidentified fleet of extreme magnitude. Classification unknown—vessels vastly exceed any Citadel-standard dreadnought size. Immediate response required. Recommend full mobilization and system lockdown. Repeat: Recommend full mobilization. This is not a drill."
He turned. "Redirect all power to shields and engines. Prepare to fall back. This is recon-only—we are not engaging. Do you understand me?"
The engines of the Vigilance groaned as they surged. Devrin gritted his teeth, watching the terrifying formations move like a great black wave.
"Helm—take us home—"
But his words were cut short by a sound that was not sound, a visual flash that seared the eyes.
From the front of the alien formation, a great angular cruiser—its sharp hull glowing with blue plasma—unleashed a bolt of ionized energy that screamed across the blackness. There was no warning, no charge-up, no diplomacy. Just the cold efficiency of war.
The bolt struck.
The Vigilance's kinetic barriers barely flickered before the hull ruptured. The impact sliced the ship in half with almost contemptuous ease. Internal temperatures spiked past steel's melting point in a fraction of a second. There were no screams. Only a drifting field of glowing metal and charred debris.
The chamber, deep within the city's central government tower, was already active when the report arrived. Designed for crisis management, it had not been used for actual warfare in decades.
The report from the Vigilance arrived first.
Then silence.
Then the sensors from orbital traffic control confirmed it: a massive fleet had entered the system, bypassing all known jump mechanics. Not a relay transit. Not a slipstream signature. They just appeared.
Within sixty seconds, the highest echelons of Illium's military-corporate leadership were present: arms magnates, private security lords, aerospace engineers, and former naval officers—all blinking at the endless wall of red signals climbing their orbital charts.
High Councillor Aramis Val, a statuesque asari with skin like stormclouds and the presence of a thunderhead, stood at the center of the room.
"We have no idea who they are?" she asked, barely concealing her fury.
"None," her intelligence chief replied, sliding data onto the holo-table. "Transponders are blank. Weapon emissions are not geth, not reaper, not Council-aligned. And they're… massive, ma'am. Most of these 'dreadnoughts' are double the length of a Council-class cruiser. Some are larger."
Another voice—Admiral Rekk, a human veteran from the days of the Skyllian Blitz, growled out:
"They took down the Vigilance without even blinking. No negotiation. No hail. We are under attack."
That silenced the room.
"Deploy planetary defenses," Val said at last. "Raise every atmospheric and orbital shield. Contact all private contractors. Lock down Nos Astra and surrounding districts. Scramble every fleet asset. I want interceptors in the sky five minutes ago."
The order rippled outward like an electric storm.
Councilor Medrin of the Defense Procurement Board leaned in. "Should we… inform the Citadel?"
Val didn't look at him. "Of course we will. Priority One Burst." 'Though what will they do?' - the shared thought went unanswered, unspoken, from the few that actually understood. They had all seen the relayed scans. Their only hope was a ground-based defensive war... and the hope that their enemy wanted this planet's infrastructure intact.
Orbital defense platforms pivoted into place. Automated turrets hissed to life. From private skyports and contracted mercenary hangars, thousands of fighters screamed into the sky.
Freighters were rerouted. Civilian transit halted. Every rooftop-mounted shield generator began its slow pulse upward, bathing entire sectors of the city in a thin azure sheen.
Dozens of Alliance-made cruisers, purchased for corporate security, formed into defensive phalanxes around critical installations. Turian-built interceptors, on lease from Palaven through backroom deals, streaked out of low orbit in defensive arcs.
It was not unity. It was not cohesion.
But it was desperation—a patchwork of pride, technology, and muscle that had made Illium rich, now forced to become Illium's shield.
==============================
Within the cold, spartan heart of the Excalibur, Commander Sors Bandeam stood still as marble, his silver-trimmed black cape unmoving despite the silent hum of the ship around him. His armor shone like obsidian under the crisp lighting—immaculate, like the man himself. Every line on his uniform spoke of precision and calculated intimidation. His pale eyes, flecked with a faint golden hue from prolonged proximity to the Emperor's presence, fixed themselves upon the starry void beyond the viewport. Below, Illium was beginning to glow with fire.
A sudden chime broke the silence.
"Incoming datafeed from Red Queen."
Sors didn't acknowledge the officer. He didn't need to. The bridge crew knew their roles well. The holographic display in front of him shimmered to life, and the sharp, seductive voice of the Red Queen echoed in his mind.
"Report: Analysis complete. Target civilization exhibits pre-elemental kinetic warfare doctrines. Ground weapons primarily rely on mass accelerator-based systems. Average projectile velocity: 1.3% the speed of light. Material density of grain-sized projectiles inadequate to breach Imperial heavy infantry armor. Standard B1 combat units exhibit total immunity under all engagement simulations."
Sors didn't smile, but a slight shift of his jaw gave away his satisfaction.
"Naval armament summary follows: spinal-mounted mass accelerator cannons. Initial kinetic volleys failed to pierce particle shielding across all engagement zones. Direct hull strikes caused cosmetic damage only. Hull alloys remain 98% intact under saturation fire. Final conclusion: planetary defenses are obsolete."
Another projection slid to life beside the first—a feed from the battlefront. Munificent-class heavy cruisers took up geosynchronous positions above the designated high-value centers of resistance. Their angular, claw-like profiles were menacing, dark shapes silhouetted against the bloom of atmospheric ignition as secondary volleys were charged.
From below, the sky was alight.
Sors turned slightly as one of the Knight-assigned officers approached, saluting crisply.
"Sir, Lucrehulk 'Dominus' has launched its initial waves of Vulture and Tri-droid squadrons. Bombers are en route. Atmospheric conditions are stable for entry. All invasion vectors are green. Planetary shields remain unpowered."
He nodded once. Efficient. Just as he liked.
"Query, Red Queen," he said aloud, his voice like tempered durasteel. "Expected ground resistance?"
"Minimal. Civilian security forces are unarmored or clad in kinetic mesh, non-adaptive. No evidence of powered armor divisions. No indication of gravimetric shielding on ground assets. Anticipated suppression time: seventeen minutes, twelve seconds. Margin of error: plus or minus five seconds depending on resistance pockets."
Sors exhaled slowly. He appreciated precision—he was its most faithful practitioner. Yet, it was not numbers that satisfied him.
It was dominance.
He turned toward the other Imperial Knights in the room. Leia stood with her arms crossed, gaze on the data displays but betraying no surprise. Laris had remained still for hours, like a statue awaiting orders. And the nameless one… always silent. Always watching.
"Begin Phase Two," Sors said. "Prepare for orbital suppression and full planetary entry. Assign one Lucrehulk and its escort wing to civilian population centers. Use standard subjugation doctrine—no need for showboating."
He tapped a control panel, bringing up Illium's topography. Major cities. Trade centers. Spaceports. All marked in crimson.
"Let them see the Emperor's will descend upon them in steel and fire."
As if on cue, the Munificents' ion cannons began to glow with latent energy—deep violet spheres pulsing within their protruding forward arrays. A moment later, they unleashed focused beams toward orbital platforms, melting through synthetic alloys like candle wax. Several defense satellites shattered mid-broadcast, their transmissions ending in screaming static.
From orbit, one could see the blossoming rings of fire on Illium's surface as dropships and fighters streaked through the atmosphere like falling stars. The B1 droids, repurposed, upgraded, and now clad in dull black armor plating, were the tide—uncaring, unrelenting.
A new voice echoed through the command deck, this one distant, half-panicked—intercepted transmission from Illium's last remaining orbital command.
"To all remaining defense sectors—fall back to Phase Line Argent! We're being overrun! Repeat, we are—"
The signal vanished under a blue-white flash.
Leia approached, arms folded, her silhouette sharp under the tactical displays that flickered with maps and heat signatures. Her tone was cold, yet measured.
"You're enjoying this far too much, Sors."
He didn't turn. His gaze remained locked on the pulsing symbols of enemy assets—civilian and military—melting into indistinction beneath the growing weight of the Imperial advance.
"No, Leia," he said evenly, "I am simply fulfilling the Emperor's will."
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the tactical map shifted, highlighting key defense sectors, strongholds, and choke points. The glimmering icons of the Munificents began powering their forward batteries once more, purple pulses building in their ion cores.
Sors raised one gloved hand, palm outward.
"Hold bombardment."
The bridge froze for half a heartbeat before the command relayed across encrypted channels. The charged cannons powered down in unison, energy banks slowly dispersing with a quiet whine.
Leia raised an eyebrow. "Changed your mind?"
He gestured, and a new set of orders scrolled across the command interface—coded signals beamed down to the Lucrehulk carriers and their attached intelligence divisions.
"Order our vanguard units to secure local military installations and data centers. Capture officers alive if possible. I want every weapon signature, every recorded battle, and every training protocol they've ever developed. Language archives. Social structure. Military hierarchy."
A new voice broke through—one of the lead droid tacticians assigned to the vanguard of the invasion.
"Directive received. Recon units deploying. Droid battalions rerouted for precision occupation. Resistance continues, but ineffective. Civilian panic increasing."
Leia looked down at the display. For all his excess and obsession with image, Sors remained terrifyingly effective.
==============================
Illium – The Capital Sprawl | Sector Delta-7
It had been less than fifteen minutes since the alarms began wailing.
Major Drelis Kor, a Turian ground commander assigned to Illium Security Forces, ducked behind the sloped ferrocrete barricade as the sky above turned into a churning mass of flame and metal. Dropships—unlike any he'd ever seen—descended in coordinated patterns, launching bursts of suppressing plasma even before touching ground. Some hovered, others dug into the terrain like beasts preparing to feast.
"Delta-Actual, be advised," came the voice of his communications officer, static ripping through the channel, "enemy is deploying automated infantry in mass. No heat signatures. They're... they're machines. Lots of 'em."
"Copy," Drelis grunted. "Deploy the barriers and fall back to Position Sigma. All teams—retreat in formation. Watch the flanks!"
A high-pitched bzzzzzzt! answered him as a plasma bolt sliced into the soldier next to him. The kinetic barrier flared uselessly—and then failed. Drelis stared in horror as the soldier collapsed with a massive hole in his torso.
"Maker..."
Above them, buzz droids tore through anti-air positions with mechanical precision. B2-series super battle droids landed with thunderous impacts, unloading wrist-mounted cannons into defending squads.
==============================
POV: CT-9212 "Racker" – Imperial Clone Trooper Captain
"Three clicks east. Multiple hostiles falling back to the high-rises. Tread carefully—some are packing heavy mass accelerator rifles. These things hit harder than they look."
Racker spoke calmly, his voice crisp over the comms as he led his strike team through the burning ruins of a shattered Illium plaza. His armor, painted in deep grey and blue, shimmered faintly under the chaotic lightshow of descending wreckage. His helmet HUD marked dozens of targets—red outlines—scattering like ants from a drowning nest.
Behind him came the unrelenting march of B1 units, fanning out in phalanx formation. They filled streets and avenues, moving like a living tide with zero fear and zero hesitation. Orbit-launched landing pods had deposited thousands in coordinated waves, and the first buildings were already breached.
"Scorch Team—clear the left flank and watch for counter-sniper positions," Racker ordered. "They're starting to wise up. I want intel, not ash. Confirm?"
"Copy that, sir. Explosives on standby, but we're going non-lethal where possible."
A distant series of thumps echoed—the unmistakable sound of mass accelerator coils charging. It was followed by a streak of silver fire.
One of the B1 droids beside him shattered, its torso imploding from a precision shot.
"Sniper. Rooftop. North face."
Racker ducked behind a fallen streetlamp, activated his helmet's heat vision, and spotted the culprit: a Salarian with a long-barrelled weapon.
He tapped his wristpad.
"Bring down the upper two floors of that building."
"Roger, Roger!"
Seconds later, under the cover fire of entire droid squads, a guided missile soared past him and buried itself into the base of the structure. A tremendous roar filled the air, and the top half of the building collapsed in on itself, taking the sniper—and half his squad—with it.
==============================
"Get those autocannons online!" shouted Lieutenant Varja, a human woman with a bloody bandage over one eye. "Don't let them get close!"
The rooftop vibrated violently as a pair of Empire buzz droids attached themselves to the coilgun emplacement. Within seconds, the weapon was disabled, its magnetic rails severed. A blue-white flash erupted as an explosion tore the whole section apart, flinging one of her officers off the ledge.
Down below, mechanized walkers unleashed heavy explosive shots into government buildings, punching through reinforced alloy and glass with ease. That said they weren't invulnerable, and they had already brought some down, but found immobilizing and slowing them down much easier.
POV: CT-0175 "Stray" – Clone Pilot, Saber Interceptor Squadron
"Ground support, this is Razor One. We're above Hotel-3. Releasing payload."
Stray's fighter screamed down at Mach velocity, weaving between skyscrapers like a dart. In his wake followed twenty droid-piloted interceptors
In seconds, the airspace above Hotel-3 was owned. Illium's remaining fighter squadrons tried to mount resistance—but the numbers were against them. One Asari pilot, flying a sleek interceptor, managed to disable two droid fighters using ECM bursts and high-G maneuvers.
She made it ten seconds before eight droid interceptors executed a simultaneous lock-on.
"Multiple Multiple enemies on my tail – I CAN'T SHAKE ALL OF THE----"
Her fighter vanished in a sunburst of light and debris.
==============================
"Commander Sors' orders: orbital bombardment remains on hold. Repeat, hold all heavy strikes."
"Objective confirmed," a tactical droid relayed. "Capture and secure local military installations. Prisoners preferred. Full spectrum analysis underway."
CT-9212 wiped the blackened soot off his armor. Around him, droids dragged survivors from their bunkers. Some screamed, others simply collapsed in terror. The Illium line was breaking. Every corridor became a meat grinder.
In the distance, the Lucrehulk Assault Carrier began deploying heavy artillery walkers—each one stomping onto the glassy streets with mechanical finality.
"Orders from above," came the calm voice of a tactical relay officer aboard the Lucrehulk, relayed to ground forces. "Initiate psychological warfare protocols. Maintain audio saturation. Let them feel what's coming."
==============================
The tremors came first—deep, guttural reverberations that rolled through the shattered windows and made the ferrocrete beneath their boots groan like a wounded beast.
Lieutenant Varja looked up from her bloodstained vantage, eyes wide, lips parting in disbelief.
It was descending.
The Lucrehulk-Class Assault Carrier, vast beyond comprehension, pierced through the ash-filled skies. Its hull eclipsed entire city blocks, blotting out the sun and casting an oppressive shadow that stretched across several districts. Skyscrapers that once loomed proudly over Illium's financial heart now looked like toys beside the vessel's descending mass.
"Goddess above…" one of her officers muttered.
Then, the voice came. Cold, metallic, and sharpened by some unseen authority.
"This is the will of the God-Emperor. Submit, and you may be spared."
A pause. And then…
It started as a deep brass pulse—rhythmic, slow, ominous. The first notes of the Imperial March rolled out from hidden directional emitters embedded across the Lucrehulk's undercarriage, their resonance shaking windowpanes and shattering nerves alike. The music was not simply broadcast—it was imposed, blaring through repurposed comm channels, local frequencies, emergency bands, even hijacked storefronts and public nodes.
Across the city, panicked citizens froze as the dirge of their annihilation poured through their homes, offices, hospitals. The orchestra built in crescendo—an anthem of power, unity, and absolute, inevitable domination.
A.N: Longest yet i think... and since i was listening to music i decided to include that last part, Imperial March is a must if the Empire exists. Next we'll see how the characters already on Illium fare against the Imperial invasion.