Inside the Meditation Hall;
The bluish holographic projection drifted gently through the air, reflecting off Samuel Young's stern face.
His eyes shimmered faintly with golden light, as if endless streams of data flowed within those deep irises.
On the hard-light screen before him, war reports, analyses, and strategic simulations from various departments scrolled in constant updates—yet his gaze wasn't truly fixed on any of it.
In fact, he didn't need all these cumbersome briefings to understand what was going on over there.
From the moment the dimensional gate opened, when the Custodes and reconnaissance forces transmitted the first batch of imagery, a long-lost sense of familiarity had already quietly stirred within him.
It had simply been too long—
So long that he had almost forgotten where he came from; so long that the memories belonging to another world seemed buried beneath the dust of time.
But the word "StarCraft" remained as vivid as yesterday.
The blue gleam of Vespene crystal veins, the iconic bulky silhouette of CMC power armor, the mechanical roar of siege tanks deploying their platforms—these classic elements were etched deep into his mind, like a brand, untouched by the erosion of time.
His fingers gently tapped the throne's armrest, thoughts surging like tides.
In the world of StarCraft, three major races vied for supremacy—
Terrans, Protoss, and Zerg.
The main stage of this interstellar conflict was the sector known as the Koprulu Sector.
Interestingly, the humans there weren't exactly a true "human civilization," but rather the descendants of Earth's exiled convicts.
They took root in this remote star cluster, enduring untold hardships, and ultimately developed the population, technology, and military strength to rival the Protoss and Zerg.
According to the lore, when the semi-exploratory human expedition from Earth "coincidentally" arrived in the Koprulu Sector as all three races were reeling from heavy losses, they swept through everything with overwhelming might.
The irony? That fleet, representing Earth—the "true" humanity—was ultimately defeated by a joint counteroffensive from the local Terrans, Protoss, and Zerg.
So just how powerful was Earth in the StarCraft universe?
That question would likely never be answered.
Before his transmigration, StarCraft had already faded into obscurity along with Blizzard's decline. The unfinished stories, the unanswered foreshadowing—these became eternal regrets in the hearts of fans.
"Blizzard quality guaranteed" had once been a proud phrase, but thanks to the series of ridiculous decisions made by upper management, the phrase "Blizzard is dead" quickly became the prevailing sentiment.
Especially that infamous line: "Don't you guys have phones?"—a classic among classics.
But Samuel hadn't been fixated on those issues back then. He'd just been a gamer who wanted to enjoy good games.
He slowly closed his eyes. Golden light flickered faintly beneath his lids.
Now, the universe on the other side of the dimensional gate was a living, breathing StarCraft world.
Deep within the planetary crust, shimmering Vespene veins slumbered like giant beasts;
Battlecruisers cruised silently through the frigid void, their engines trailing blue flames across the vacuum;
And in the darkest corners, Zerg broods may well be lurking in the shadows, their chitin scraping inaudibly, biding their time to erupt in a torrent capable of swallowing an entire sector.
Now, the veil over that universe would be lifted—by him, and by the entirety of the Human Empire.
As for whether to continue deploying additional forces—
He opened his eyes again, the golden glow in his pupils reflecting the hovering holographic projection before him.
Detailed preliminary intelligence regarding Universe "Eighteen" unfurled in front of him.
Based on the gate's coordinates—namely the state of Mar Sara—the desert planet had clearly already endured Zerg devastation, Protoss purifying fire, and Terran Dominion reconquest.
The scorched, glassy terrain bore the cruel imprint of Protoss cleansing beams, while Terran Dominion insignias scattered across the surface attested to humanity's regained control.
Moreover, the Dominion was actively hunting down Jim Raynor, labeled a "terrorist," and there were no signs yet of a renewed Zerg invasion on Mar Sara…
All signs pointed to a clear time frame: post-2502.
This aligned precisely with the main storyline of StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty—Raynor's Raiders on the rise, the Dominion and Zerg locked in subtle struggle.
At present, veteran agents Leon and Mike—both "middle-aged"—were already en route with a Salamanders squad toward Raynor's suspected hideout.
Given their operational efficiency, it wouldn't be long before they came face-to-face with the legendary rebel commander known as "Jim the Lightning God."
If they could successfully bring his Raiders under Imperial command, it would be a massive boon for subsequent operations.
But the negotiation would likely be far from smooth.
Jim Raynor was known for being fiercely defiant. A man who would rather live as a fugitive across the sector than kneel to the Dominion's ruler, Arcturus Mengsk, wouldn't easily submit to any kind of authority.
Leon and Mike would need not only diplomatic finesse but also a certain degree of forceful persuasion to get the stubborn commander to even consider cooperation.
As for further military reinforcements, Samuel judged that current forces were more than sufficient to handle nearly all foreseeable threats.
One hundred Custodes combined with a full Salamanders 3rd Company formation was enough to sweep through any conventional military force in the Koprulu Sector.
Even the Zerg's overwhelming swarm tactics would crumble before the heavy bolters of the Astartes and the hard-light weapons net of the support troops.
Not to mention, with Constantine leading the Custodes, there was theoretically no threat they could not face—not even the psi-wielding Protoss.
The only real variable was the existence known as "God" in that universe—the fallen Xel'naga, Amon.
That ancient being, capable of manipulating Void energy, might indeed pose some trouble for the Empire's forces.
But even so, in the face of absolute power, even gods would eventually be reduced to dust under the Pure Light.
For now, the most immediate threat at the front-line base was the Zerg preparing to sweep across Mar Sara once again.
These ravenous biomass devourers never truly gave up on a marked world. They lay dormant in the crust and silent starfields, waiting for the perfect moment to erupt and descend.
So, alongside military integration, the Custodes and Salamanders bore another vital responsibility—evacuating civilians.
The ordinary people struggling to survive in desert settlements must not become the Zerg's next feast.
Every second mattered; they had to rescue as many innocents as possible before the Swarm's return.
The hall fell silent. Only the faint hum of the holographic projectors could be heard.
Samuel's gaze swept across the floating planetary model, finally settling on the two artificial intelligences beneath the throne—Ap and Melisa.
"Instruct the Engineering Department to immediately begin planning a new city at the Eighteen Frontline Base, for the resettlement of Mar Sara refugees."
His voice echoed through the grand hall.
"Understood, Your Majesty."
"Executing at once, my Lord."
Both AIs bowed simultaneously, data streams flashing rapidly in their eyes.
With the Engineering Department's astonishing efficiency, supported by modular construction and advanced tech, a fully equipped modern city could rise in under seventy-two standard hours.
From residential zones to medical centers, aerial farms to energy networks, this new city would easily accommodate a million people.
Yet Mar Sara's actual population was likely far below that.
This war-torn planet had been ravaged by the Zerg long ago. Conservative estimates placed the remaining residents under a million—possibly only a few hundred thousand.
After the Dominion regained control, most people who had the means chose not to return to this cursed world.
Only those with nowhere else to go—desperate for meager mining wages or duped by the Dominion's propaganda of "pioneer subsidies"—risked coming back to this blighted land.
On the holographic projection, the blueprint of the new city quickly took shape.
Samuel knew that this city wasn't just a shelter for refugees—it was the Empire's first permanent foothold in this universe.
"Also…" he tapped the throne's armrest, the metallic clang echoing throughout the hall, "deploy Athena and her direct subordinate Greek demigod units to Universe Eighteen's front-line base. They'll be in charge of countering potential psionic threats."
"Affirmative."
"Immediately executing, my Lord."
The AIs' voices echoed crisply.
And with the order issued, within the New Olympus "Sanctuary" atop the Empire Palace's western mountains, the golden-armored goddess of war opened her eyes—as if sensing the battle to come.
Over a hundred Greek demigods emerged from their respective temples, their radiant armor gleaming in the morning light.
These ancient deities would wield their divine powers to eliminate all psionic obstacles for the Empire.
With instructions given, Samuel fell back into thought.
The conquest of the StarCraft universe had to proceed steadily—not rushed.
Even when facing Protoss seers or Dominion Ghost operatives, with Athena overseeing and the Greek pantheon's extraordinary might, they could handle any psionic threat.
As for the "Children of Wounds"—those psionic masters skilled in "magic"—their deployment wasn't yet necessary.
Likewise, the Primarchs didn't need to personally lead any legions for now.
This universe's early-stage conquest difficulty was manageable. One full Astartes Company with elite Custodes was more than enough.
Samuel's intentions were clear—
To bring the entire StarCraft universe, along with its abundant crystal resources and technological legacy, completely into the direct domain of the Human Empire.
As for the hidden Terran Earth faction, the mysterious human civilization whose full strength was yet unrevealed…
That could be handled later.
With the Empire's military might, they could apply "simple" force-based deterrence, combined with firm diplomatic tactics—a two-pronged approach of power and politics—to annex the opposing faction.
After all, before becoming the Emperor, Samuel's greatest strength had been this very kind of "honest" commercial competition.
Sometimes, applying precise physical removal to hostile leadership was the most cost-effective and immediate solution.
On the rotating StarCraft star map in the projection, each planet would soon bask in the radiance of the Golden Throne.
Meanwhile, on Mar Sara—
Another "brutal" dawn broke over the southern desert.
The pale red glow of the local star pierced the atmosphere, dyeing the entire wasteland a rust-colored crimson.
A Thunderhawk Raider skimmed low over a dried-up riverbed, its engines stirring a sandstorm that trailed in murky streaks along its flanks.
From the window, the land below was a sight of devastation.
Countless abandoned mining pits yawned like festering wounds on the planet's surface. Their exposed Vespene veins long since depleted, jagged rock walls gleamed with a cold sheen.
More haunting were the marks left by the Zerg—
Acid-scorched trenches stretching for kilometers, ground glassed by bioplasma, and scattered remains of Terran armor—all told of the brutal battles once fought here.
The gunship suddenly decelerated, its engine's roar startling a few local scavenger birds into flight.
On the horizon, a small settlement came into view—constructed from prefab housing and wrecked spaceship hulls.
It was eerily quiet. No minecarts moved, no markets bustled—only a few wisps of smoke hinted that people still lived here.
As the Raider landed in the town square, rusted metal groaned beneath its weight.
Before the ramp fully lowered, scattered residents sensed danger and fled in all directions.
But Leon and Mike quickly noticed that the stronger, more muscular "miners" didn't truly leave. Instead, they melted into alleyway shadows, casting wary eyes from every corner.
When the six Salamanders stepped off the ramp, the air in the square seemed to freeze.
Their dark green armor gleamed in the morning light, the salamander insignias on their pauldrons glaring like living beasts.
The men watching from the shadows turned pale and vanished almost in unison into the maze-like alleyways—as if receiving an unspoken command.
"Looks like we've got some 'terrorist' members," Mike said quietly, his finger resting on his sidearm's safety. "Fast reaction."
Leon didn't respond. His gaze was drawn to a relatively intact building on the square's edge.
A bar named Joey Ray's. Its flickering neon sign stubbornly glowed in the morning light.
More notably, there were fresh footprints at the door—starkly out of place amid the surrounding desolation.
"A bar in a dump like this?" Mike scoffed. "Either they're idiots or…"
"Or they're waiting for someone," Leon finished, already heading toward the bar. "Let's get a drink."
"Yeah, time to wet the throat. You're paying."
"…"
The two Investigation Department agents strode toward the bar, while the six Salamanders instinctively fanned out to establish security.
Screeech—
Rusty hinges groaned as Leon and Mike pushed open the swing doors, stepping into a space thick with the scent of alcohol and engine oil.
At the counter, a burly man in a faded T-shirt sat with his back to them, slowly swirling a glass mid-air with coarse fingers.
The bartender's glass-wiping hand froze. Conversations in the corners ceased abruptly.
All eyes turned to the two strangers who had just walked in.
(End of Chapter)
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