Prologue: March to War!
Year 0000, Before The Imperium
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Thousands of Years Ago…
A heavy downpour enveloped the entire valley, each raindrop striking the ground like tiny spears hurled from the heavens. The clouds above, dark and ominous, seemed to share in the bloodlust that permeated the air below.
There stood a man with a solemn visage, his regal face weathered by countless battles, overlooking a formation of heavy steel—a congregation of battle-hardened veterans who had survived the crucible of war. Reflected in his blue cerulean eyes was the blood and madness that had brought many men to their knees. The scars that adorned his face were not marks of defeat but testaments to his resilience, each telling its own tale of survival against insurmountable odds.
Yet to him, the rhythmic sound of men banging their spears, swords, and axes against their shields was comforting; this cacophony of metal against metal was his lullaby, his peace in a world of chaos. The familiar symphony resonated through his bones, awakening something primal within his soul.
Around him stood his twenty remaining confidants, the commanders of many men and women who had been with him since the first blood was spilled in their campaign. Their armor, once pristine, now bore the marks of countless battles—dents and scratches that told stories of narrow escapes and glorious victories. Some wore cloaks of deep crimson, stained darker in places by the blood of fallen enemies. Others displayed trophies of war: necklaces of teeth, bangles of bone, all grim reminders of those who had stood against them and fallen.
They all stood with pride and conviction etched into their faces, their eyes burning with a fervor that could only be tempered by the heat of battle. These were warriors who had seen the worst of humanity and had become something more—perhaps something less human but undeniably more deadly.
Without a doubt, they were his most trusted, forged in the fires of conflict and bound by blood both shed and spilled. Soon they would hold the highest positions in his empire, ruling over lands yet unconquered but already claimed in their hearts. Each commander embodied a different aspect of war: the strategist whose mind saw patterns in chaos; the berserker whose rage was a weapon unto itself; the shadow whose blade found enemies in their sleep; the shield who had saved their leader countless times at great personal cost.
He gazed upon their faces one by one, acknowledging the bond that transcended mere loyalty. This was a covenant written in scars and sealed with the lives of those they had sent to the afterlife. His voice, though not raised, carried power that silenced even the howling wind as he spoke a solemn vow.
"We march to war, my friends," he declared, his words cutting through the rain like a blade, "and we will be victorious. Not by the grace of gods or the favor of fate, but by the strength of our arms and the fire in our hearts."
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the army below for one brilliant moment—thousands of warriors standing in perfect formation, their weapons at the ready, their discipline unbroken despite the deluge that threatened to drown the world.
"We shall forge in the blood of our people and our enemies the foundation of our New Empire. An empire where strength is rewarded and weakness is purged, where our children will never know the humiliation our ancestors suffered."
He drew and raised a rather simple yet regal steel sword, its edge gleaming despite the absence of sunlight. It had been forged by his personal blacksmith just a week prior, the metal taken from the weapons of defeated enemy commanders. Simple in design but perfect in balance, it represented everything he stood for—function over form, substance over spectacle, deadly purpose over ornate pretension.
Looking down upon the valley, he beheld his army—not just warriors but farmers who had abandoned their plows, hunters who had set aside their bows, craftsmen who had traded their tools for weapons. They were his people, transformed by necessity and hardened by purpose.
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A War Cry of A King…
He bellowed his war cry, a single word that contained within it all the rage and determination of a people pushed too far.
"WAR!"
In unison, the warriors below echoed his cry, their voices reverberating throughout the valley, bouncing off the mountainsides and returning amplified as if the very land joined in their declaration.
"WAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!!"
"WAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!!"
The sound was deafening, primal, a challenge hurled at the gates of their enemies and at the heavens themselves. Birds took flight from distant trees, startled by the sudden eruption of human fury. The rain seemed to fall harder, as though the sky itself wept at what was to come.
For a moment, he stood still, eyes closed, listening to the voices of his warriors. He felt every plea in their cries as they echoed through the valley—pleas for justice, for vengeance, for an end to suffering. Each voice carried the weight of personal tragedy, of loved ones lost, of dignity stripped away. In their unified cry, he heard the voices of the dead demanding retribution.
He held his sword high, pointing directly toward where the sun would be if not obscured by storm clouds, until the roar of his people gradually faded into an expectant silence. The only sounds remaining were the persistent drumming of rain on armor and the occasional rumble of distant thunder.
Then, he spoke, his voice carrying far beyond what seemed possible for a mortal man.
"People of Elms! Noble Sons and Daughters of Arkanus! My brothers and sisters! Today, we shall be one—united against our common enemy. No longer divided by clan or creed, by old feuds or ancient grudges. We will be the conquerors of our fate, the architects of a new age written in the blood of those who sought to enslave us."
His words sparked a fire that not even the torrential rain could extinguish, and the warriors banged their shields so loudly that the sound echoed across the valley like war drums played by giants.
"The Gods have willed it!" he proclaimed, though whether he truly believed in divine guidance or merely used it to inspire his followers remained his secret. "They have tested us with suffering, tempered us with pain, and now they watch to see if we are worthy of the glory that awaits!"
The army roared their approval, their faith in him absolute and unquestioning.
"We shall conquer this last bastion of our enemies," he continued, his voice growing in power with each word. "They who have mistreated and trampled upon our people for eons. They have taken our children as slaves, our women as playthings, our men as fodder for their cruel games."
His grip tightened on his sword as memories of atrocities witnessed flooded his mind, fueling his words with genuine rage.
"No! They who have committed acts so vile and inhumane shall pay the price with the blood of their people! Their cities will burn, their temples will crumble, their gods will abandon them as they cry out for mercy that will not come."
Lightning flashed again, casting harsh shadows across his face that made him appear momentarily inhuman—an avatar of vengeance rather than a man.
"Only then can this madness and blood feud we have endured for so long come to an end. Only then, when they meet our ancestors in the next life, will we forgive them—and even then, only after they have begged for centuries on their knees!"
The warriors struck their shields again, some crying openly now, tears mixing with rainwater as they remembered all they had lost in this generational conflict.
"Long have we suffered, and long have we endured! Our ancestors' cries will be heard! And they will bellow through you! Through your blades and your arrows, through your fists and your courage, they will have their vengeance at last!"
He swept his sword in an arc before him, symbolically cutting down the invisible enemies that stood between his people and their destiny.
"We shall slaughter them to the last 9kin—leave none behind, not their shadow nor their echoes! Their bloodlines will end by our hand, their names forgotten by history, their achievements erased from memory. Spare no one in our path! Age will not protect them, wealth will not shield them, pleading will not move us!"
The warriors banged their shields, their feet trembling against the ground beneath them with such force that small stones bounced and shivered. The earth itself seemed to quake with their collective fury.
"WITH ME!" he roared, turning his horse toward the enemy lands that lay beyond the valley. "WE MARCH TO WAR!!!!!!!!"
As one entity, the army moved forward, hundreds of thousands of feet stepping in perfect unison. The rain continued to fall, but now it seemed to strengthen rather than hinder them, washing away their final hesitations and baptizing them into a new, terrible purpose.
From the vantage point of the distant mountains, an observer might have seen something remarkable—the army moving as a single organism, a dark tide flowing across the valley floor with inexorable purpose. And at its head, a man whose ambition would reshape the world, whose name would one day be spoken with reverence and terror in equal measure.
The Imperium was about to be born in blood and fire.