Hasako

  Senator Angus Caedmon returned to the Imperial Pace-Citadel of Sol Primaris, its gold towers drowned in smoke from secondary Senate meeting riots and military protests.

  He wasted no time.

  Straight to the Throne Chamber.

  Straight to Emperor Hariko Lee.

  “Reform the Senate and crify the chain of command, or you’ll lose the gaxy before the war even ends.”

  The Emperor, known more for evasion than action, slumped like a child caught in a lie. But even Hariko Lee could see what was coming. He rubbed his temples, his voice ft.

  “Fine. I’m not dying on a hill of red tape. Just… don’t make it messier than it already is.”

  Angus smiled, humorless.

  “Good.”

  He id down the Unified Command Structure—the blueprint that would overhaul the scattered command tree of the Empire and finally enforce order in the chaos.

  The New Gactic Command StructureImperius Inquisitor: Supreme authority. Forms armies, appoints all below. Now held personally by Emperor Hariko Lee.

  Imperius Senator: Sor system governors, each commanding fleets up to 5 million ships.

  Imperator: Commander of the entire Gaxy Interstelr Fleet.

  Legatus Inquisitus: Military organizer. Can approve or deny new marine chapters.

  Imperatus Imperator: Head of pnetary defenses across all worlds.

  Legatus Legionis: World-based legion commanders.

  Tribunium Miltium: Provincial defense leaders.

  Imperius Principes: Elite company leaders (50–2,500 soldiers), dependent on Emperor-crafted enhancement syrups.

  Baron to Viscount: Ranked nobility for interstelr logistics and sector coordination.

  Imperial Army Hierarchy: From conscript to pnetary general, with standard saries and merit-point systems.

  Imperial Naval Chain: From sailor to Supreme Marshal, scaled by fleet size, with increasing authority and logistical control.

  The Senate vote went through within days.

  55% approved

  25% abstained

  20% rejected

  The majority ruled.

  Angus had won.

  Command was now unified.

  Orders could be followed without crossing six yers of useless titles.

  But as new ranks settled, new chaos erupted.

  Requests flooded in.

  “Streamline weapon production!”“Standardize infantry firepower!”“We need fire superiority!”

  One frontline still used M1 Garands, another used M4A3s firing 35-round Lerium magazines, and a third used M4A1s—all incompatible, inconsistent, and underpowered.

  Enter: Anna Bke.

  The Birth of the M4A4 – The Gun That Changed the WarMadwoman. Genius. War scientist.

  She ignored requests to merely “simplify.” She aimed to transform.

  “You want stopping power? You’ll get it. And probably a crater.”

  She began melting Lerium lead.

  Her b assistant tried melting 50 tons at once.

  Bad idea.

  The result?

  Explosion equivalent to 500,000 tons of TNT.

  Nearly breached into a subnuclear reaction.

  Luckily, it was just 49 tons—and just barely stable.

  Instead of panicking, Anna took notes.

  And made the M4A4.

  M4A4 – Psma Lerium Assault RifleAmmo: Refined, melted Lerium lead cores.

  Firepower: 1,050 psma-explosive yield per round.

  Range: 5,000 to 7,500 yards effective.

  Drawback: Barrel meltdown after 2,100 rounds.

  Her solution?

  “Swap the damn barrel. Keep firing. War doesn’t wait.”

  The revised M4A4 gained a modur thermal barrel that was able to eject and reload in seconds.

  Early tests?

  Two M4A4s eliminated a Blood Angel in 90 seconds.

  Squads armed with M4A4s pushed frontline losses down by 20% in the first 3 hours of deployment.

  Angus stood atop the orbital bastion, watching transport fleets deploy the new rifles. The Empire was still bleeding. Still fractured.

  But now?

  It could finally bleed into a unified formation.

  “War doesn’t pause for policy,” Angus muttered.

  “So neither will we.”

  In the imperial coreworld of Orion's Cradle, the Senate floor was quieter than usual—though the silence was heavy with discomfort, not peace.

  Senator Mordred Pendragon XII, heir of the Bloodsteel Line and architect of the newly unified Imperial Command, stood with a fresh proposal—this time, not for fleets or war factories.

  But for civilian cyberspace regution.

  “If a civilian-run site can harbor harmful content,” Mordred began, “then it can also help cause the death of a soldier—pureblood or conscript. That is a military failure, not just social.”

  The proposal outlined new report fgs required across all Imperial digital ptforms:

  Bullying or harassment leading to suicide of Imperial servicemembers.

  Allowing explicit content involving minors.

  Encouraging terrorist activity.

  Promoting hate speech against Imperial service forces.

  Causing indirect suicide of civilians due to social or status-based degradation.

  Allowing organized harassment campaigns.

  Each report would be categorized and weighed not by emotional damage alone, but by measurable impact on manpower, morale, and Imperial frontline support.

  Any site found to contribute to a statistically significant reduction in recruitment or combat efficiency could be seized, bcklisted, or forcibly restructured.

  The proposal passed.

  80% voted in favor.

  19% abstained.

  1% attempted a veto, but failed.

  However, a powerful amendment was attached by the senatorial watchdogs:

  “Each report’s legitimacy is subject to investigation by the Imperial Financial Intelligence Agency (IFIA), a shadow agency tasked with uncovering long-term terrorist data undering, suicide-linked content channels, and indirect psychological warfare units.”

  The IFIA’s involvement guaranteed that the real targets weren’t just rogue citizens—but corporate fronts, criminal networks, and bck-ops shell companies.

  The Empire was tightening its grip.

  While the Senate argued digital ethics, Mordred presented his second request—one less philosophical, more immediate.

  “Sector 99999.50001 is colpsing.”

  Only three habitable pnets remained.

  The key world—Ismar—was now nothing more than a ruined spine of trenches, Orc camps, and Imperial bunkers welded to the bone of old cities.

  Prayers had become artillery.

  Faith Matter surged every time a dying soul cried out. The Blood Angels emerged from these echoes—divine parasites of war-born worship.

  99% of veterans on Ismar could identify the spawn signs.

  They dumped entire 8-mag loads on sight before the things even took form.

  Old Lerium-lead artillery—repurposed from K3 tank hulls—now hit targets between 5 and 50 miles out, trying to stop the onsught at range.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  High above mortal strife, in the warped folds of the 4th Dimension, Aros—God of War, Strategist of Faith—watched it all unfold.

  Only his avatar could touch the battlefield.

  The true Aros remained hidden.

  He waged war not only against Chaos, but against his own court—a pantheon where divine coups were commonpce.

  “I will not die like Somar, my father,” Aros whispered to his inner council, “sin in silence while pying empire.”

  1 heavenly day for him = 1 billion mortal years.

  He could afford to wait.

  But his avatar?

  That was already on fire.

  Back in the Senate, just as discussion of battle logistics resumed, the chamber doors were torn open by divine energy.

  Victoria entered.

  Her voice didn’t tremble. Her eyes, blue as eternal judgment, didn’t blink.

  “Prepare for the End of Days.”

  She said nothing more.

  And the chamber froze.

  For ten full seconds, not a senator moved.

  Then the murmuring began—not in panic, but in calcutions.

  The four ruling families spoke in cold harmony:

  Pendragon Cn: “A new front.”

  Estein Cn: “Mass vat-birth. Accelerate cycle.”

  Wittman Cn: “Use locals for fortification. Let them die in pce.”

  Caesar Cn: “Offer honor-deaths to volunteers. Package it as glory.”

  They didn’t deny the warning.

  They just slotted it into their logistics.

  Another front. Another grind.

  More bodies.

  More reports.

  More prayers to fuel the machines.

  The Senate’s pn wasn’t salvation.

  It was survival by automation.

  With the M70 deployed to ground units, Anna turned to air dominance.

  The AC-140 was her monster—a fortress with wings. And now, it was ready.

  Lt. Gerald reported first.

  “The 50mm Psma Rotavator Cannon is online, Professor.It fires 1,000 psma rounds in rapid succession,with 10,000 in reserve.It’s tearing through enemy fortifications, low-flying craft, and command bunkers.”

  Anna nodded with satisfaction. It wasn’t subtle—but it didn’t have to be.

  “And the 230mm Psma AE01 Artillery Piece?”

  Gerald tapped the holomap.

  “Fully operational. Holds 20 shots ready-to-fire, 700 in reserve.Each bst levels city blocks. Can breach sub-surface bunkers.It’s wiped out 6 Blood Angel shrines before their spawn cycle finished.”

  She didn’t smile this time. That wasn’t a weapon.

  That was a battlefield reset button.

  Finally, Dr. Morna stepped forward with her part.

  “The 120mm Psma Rail Gun is up.Fires 40 rounds in bursts, with 2,400 in reserve.Psma shells pierce shielded hulls, pnetary fortresses, even dimensional gates.The gun maintains integrity past 4,000 meters per second.”

  Anna’s eyes gleamed with savage pride.

  This wasn’t a ship.

  It was orbital judgment.

  The AC-140 was now dually armed:

  On one side: conventional weapons (105mm howitzer, 40mm Bofors).

  On the other: psma weapons that burned holes in gods.

  That bance—steel and faith—meant it could serve anywhere:

  In cities.

  In deserts.

  In voidspace.

  In dimensional rifts.

  As the first wave of AC-140s unched into Sector 99999.50001, the Blood Angels screamed from the skies.

  And for once, the Empire screamed back louder.

  Anna didn’t celebrate.

  She just handed over the next blueprint.

  “I want to weaponize teleportation next,” she whispered.“Imagine a gun that shoots, then warps the explosion into your brainstem.”

  The AC-140’s engines rumbled across the unch pad as a squad of elite drop troops saluted its passing shadow. The glow of psma barrels cast a blue shimmer across their armor.

  Anna Bke, coat torn from the test field test, stood on the hangar’s catwalk, overseeing a final diagnostic of the M70 Lerium Machine Guns loaded into the next deployment cycle.

  One soldier—Sergeant Alek Varn, bearing the gold-trimmed seal of Command Compliance Enforcement—stepped forward. He didn’t salute.

  He stared.

  “Professor Bke.”

  She didn’t turn.

  “What is it?”

  “Before these weapons are deployed to a new sector, I need to know something.”

  She looked at him now, eyes cold and ft.

  “Go on.”

  “Did any Imperial Commander, Imperatus Imperator, or Legatus Inquisitus request these weapons?”

  The question hung in the air like a dropped bde.

  Around them, engineers paused. Marines froze mid-load. Even the servitors hummed quieter.

  Because if the answer was no…

  This wasn’t an act of innovation.

  It was heresy.

  Anna stepped forward, boots ringing on steel.

  “Let me ask you something, Sergeant.”

  “When your squad ran out of ammo st week on Ismar, who supplied the repcement crates of modified M70s?”

  “You.”

  “When your orbital position was about to be overrun by Blood Angels and the AC-140 dropped in and wiped the sky clean, who programmed its firepath?”

  “You.”

  “So I’ll ask you—when commanders sit in bunkers doing vote requests, are they designing the weapons you need?”

  “No, Professor.”

  “Then you’re welcome.”

  But Alek didn’t flinch.

  “Innovation without authorization is still heresy. You know the creed. Unauthorized psma augmentation is Css One Viotion of the Forge Edicts.”

  Anna didn’t blink.

  “And ignoring progress when the enemy evolves? That’s suicide.”

  She pulled a data-ste from her coat and spped it against his chestpte.

  “That’s signed by Legatus Legionis Daro, sent an hour ago. Retroactive authorization for mass deployment. Commander-level signature. Full clearance. Legal now, legal then.”

  Alek checked it.

  The seal glowed Imperial Red.

  “Convenient timing.”

  “War doesn’t wait for paperwork, Sergeant. And neither do I.”

  She turned, walking away.

  But before she vanished into the dark of the engineering bay, she looked back once.

  “If you're still worried about heresy, report me.”

  “But you better pray I’m not around when the next Blood Angel cws through your helmet.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  The hangar roared to life.

  Above, the next AC-140 screamed into orbit—its guns hot, its bays full, and its existence banced perfectly between salvation and bsphemy.

  In the forgotten sector of Lab Vault 9, buried beneath the irradiated crust of a dead moon, Anna Bke began her most dangerous trial yet.

  She had 20,000 death-row prisoners—sourced from across Imperial prison-worlds. Serial heretics. Failed clones. War criminals. Souls condemned not to die, but to be used.

  “If the gods want offerings,” she whispered, “let’s see what they give back.”

  Phase One: Warp-Nuclear InductionShe injected 2,000 prisoners with unstable warp-tethered psma compounds, then detonated a micro-warp singurity in the center of the chamber.

  They evaporated.

  No body. No ash.

  Just a scream that echoed for 19 minutes straight, even though nothing remained.

  Their souls hadn’t passed on—they were torn open.

  Phase Two: Neural Expansion Compound ZAnother 4,000 were injected with Compound Z, designed to hyper-evolve the brain’s faith-processing center.

  Instead, their veins turned to milkshake, their blood curdling from the inside out. Their eyes boiled. Their bodies colpsed in pink froth.

  Another 6,000 simply went mad.

  They began praying to nothing.

  But something heard them anyway.

  Phase Three: The Altar AppearsTheir synchronized worship caused the b’s walls to tremble.

  Then the Altar of the Mood Odor, long mythologized in cursed Alpha Gaxy reports, manifested inside her b.

  Not metaphorically.

  Physically.

  It phased into reality—stone bleeding bck liquid, air buzzing like locust wings.

  From the cracks in the altar, Beelzebub’s forces poured in like a living infection.

  Twisted insect-men. Fly Makers. Pus soldiers. Even the Fly Dragon, rotted and hissing, slithered from the warp-tear.

  It bit Anna Bke’s leg clean off.

  The DrugBleeding, ughing, half-mad herself, Anna reached into her coat.

  She popped a bio-regrowth capsule—something she’d synthesized from forbidden flesh harvested during Blood Angel vivisections.

  Her leg regrew in 7.8 seconds.

  But it wasn’t just healed—it came back faster, stronger, and visibly humming with green psma veins.

  “Thanks, God-Emperor,” she gasped. “You still make the best bootstraps.”

  The Prayer and the FireAs the creatures filled the b, Imperial soldiers stormed in—each equipped with M70 Lerium MGs.

  But even they paused at the sight.

  The altar pulsed. The Fly Dragon roared. Beelzebub’s curse coiled into the air.

  So the soldiers didn’t fire.

  They prayed.

  And that changed everything.

  Their prayers summoned Faith Matter, pulled directly from the Emperor’s Will.

  A pilr of holy fire descended from above—pure, silver-red fme.

  The b ignited.

  The prisoners still alive burned screaming.

  The altar shattered.

  The Fly Dragon was disintegrated mid-roar.

  Everything unclean turned to light and then to ash.

  When the smoke cleared, Anna stood in the center.

  Alive.

  Her leg glowing faintly.

  The b: gone.

  Her notes: stored in her neural core.

  One soldier approached, shaking.

  “Professor… we lost everyone. You burned 20,000 souls.”

  Anna didn’t blink.

  “Correction. I saved the ones who would’ve damned the rest of us. And now we know what not to do.”

  She smiled, bloody.

  “Next time, I’ll start with 30,000.”

  One day ter, the gaxy shook not from war—but from Anna Bke.

  What happened in Lab Vault 9 couldn’t be buried. The altar. The heresy. The summoning of Beelzebub’s forces into realspace. The incineration of 20,000 condemned souls under holy fire.

  The Senate chamber went dead silent as the footage rolled—frame by frame, fme by fme.

  Some senators watched in awe.

  Most watched in horror.

  And the ones who knew what they were seeing?

  They voted.

  Emergency Motion 9891A-Bck"Effective immediately: all experimental biological or warp-adjacent military development conducted by Anna Bke is to be suspended indefinitely under Article 17 of Anti-Warp Catastrophe Doctrine."

  Vote Tally:

  77% voted to suspend her work.

  19% abstained.

  4% demanded execution.

  The wording was delicate, but the intent was not.

  They feared another Warp Gaxy event.

  They feared the birth of another chaos altar in realspace.

  And above all, they feared her—because unlike the Chaos Gods, Anna didn’t ask permission.

  On the Frontlines: A New NameBy the next day, the warzones of Sector 99999.50001 were buzzing with whispers.

  In the trenches. In the drop bays. In the prayer pits.

  “She summoned an altar. Just... opened it like a vault door.”

  “She fed prisoners to the warp and walked out ughing.”

  “She regrew her leg after a Fly Dragon bit it off. Who the hell does that?”

  Her name became a phrase. Not an insult. Not a compliment. Something between warning and respect.

  “Death Row Syer.”

  Every time Anna Bke passed through a trench, field station, or psma-wracked command center, soldiers stared.

  Some saluted.

  Others clutched their holy tokens.

  One group of veterans from Ismar simply muttered:

  “Bke’s walking warcrime.”

  Anna’s ResponseShe returned to the charred remains of Lab 9, her new leg still humming faintly.

  When told of the Senate vote, she didn’t protest.

  She just stared out over the crater.

  “They don’t want another Warp Gaxy…”

  She chuckled.

  “They don’t realize we’re already in one.”

  Behind her, a scientist dared ask:

  “What will you do now?”

  She turned. Eyes tired, but alive with burning curiosity.

  “Build something clean.”

  “Something silent.”

  “Something they’ll never trace back to me—until it’s already deployed.”

  And somewhere, deep in the system’s forgotten corners, Anna’s followers began prepping materials for Lab Vault 10.

  Hidden.

  Off-record.

  Beyond Senate oversight.

  Because war didn’t stop just because the Senate passed a vote.