Under the dim lights, motes of dust drifted slowly through the air, and the acrid smoke of cheap tobacco clung low to the bar's sagging ceiling.
The bartender's glass-wiping motion suddenly halted. The murmured conversation of a few drunkards in the corner came to an abrupt end. Every eye turned to the two unfamiliar newcomers.
Though Leon and Mike wore civilian clothes, in the absence of entering "actor" mode or beginning infiltration, their innate aura was unmistakable—
Straight-backed posture, sharp eyes, and the effortless composure of those long accustomed to authority.
To the barflies of this slum, these details were jarringly out of place. It took mere seconds for them to be tagged as "Terran Dominion agents."
"Two whiskeys. On the rocks," Leon said calmly as he and Mike took seats on either side of the burly man at the bar.
The bartender didn't move. His calloused fingers tapped lightly on the bar top.
In the corner, the drunkards subtly reached toward their waists. The faint clinks of metal were unusually clear in the bar's silence.
Clack.
The bartender suddenly reached beneath the bar and drew out an old pump-action shotgun, jamming the barrel directly against Leon's chest.
At the same time, the rest of the patrons drew their weapons—
Rusty revolvers, modified submachine guns, even a few jury-rigged laser cutters—all pointed directly at the two agents.
"Whoa~ easy, fellas," Mike raised his hands dramatically, his expression calm despite the situation. "Watch those triggers—getting hit by this stuff hurts."
Leon remained silent, only raising his hands slightly to show he meant no harm.
"Dominion dogs aren't welcome here," the bartender growled, his voice like sandpaper. "If you don't want to die, get the hell out."
But before the last word had left his lips, Leon's left hand moved like a blur.
His palm pressed precisely against the shotgun's barrel. Before the bartender could even react or pull the trigger, Leon's fingers clamped around the weapon like iron, twisting and yanking it away in one smooth motion—executed as if drilled a thousand times.
The bartender felt a jolt in his wrist, and the gun was no longer his.
At the exact same moment, Mike's body sprung backward like a coil.
His body arced through the air, and at some point, both of his custom pistols had appeared in his hands.
By the time his boots touched down again, his weapons were aimed squarely at the nearest armed patrons.
Click.
Leon chambered a shell in the shotgun with one hand. The stock pressed firmly into his shoulder. The muzzle didn't waver as it aimed straight at the bartender's forehead.
Time seemed to freeze in the bar. Everyone was stuck in place—
No one had seen what just happened. These two "agents" moved with speed that surpassed human limits—there was no time to react or resist.
The bartender's Adam's apple bobbed. Cold sweat dripped down his temple.
Now, it was the bartender who slowly raised his hands, realizing he'd made a fatal mistake.
The other patrons didn't dare make a move either. Their trigger fingers trembled slightly, but no one dared pull a trigger that might unleash a massacre—one where everyone dies with their enemies.
Then, at that tense standoff—
THUMP! THUMP!
Heavy footsteps sounded outside, shaking the floorboards.
Glass mugs hanging on the wall clinked and rattled.
BANG—!
The bar's wooden door burst open, hinges groaning under the impact.
A massive figure stooped low, dark green armor nearly filling the entire doorway.
A Salamander warrior ducked in, his .75-caliber boltgun's muzzle sweeping slowly across every patron in the room.
"All of you," a metallic, low voice boomed from the helmet's speaker, "leave. Now."
!!!!
The patrons' faces turned ghost-white in an instant.
On this backwater planet, when had they ever seen such a fully armed giant?
His finely crafted armor still bore traces of fresh blood, and the red glow from his visor cast an aura of death in the dim bar.
With barely a moment's hesitation, the patrons dropped their weapons and bolted for the exit—some even dove out the windows.
The bartender looked to Leon. Receiving a silent nod of permission, he stumbled out after the others.
The Salamander, seemingly pleased with the clearing operation, gave a nod to Leon and Mike, then turned and left the bar.
As his heavy footsteps faded, the space finally regained its peace.
…Except for the shattered door.
Now, only Mike, Leon, and the calm, mysterious burly man remained in the bar.
"You two…" the man suddenly spoke, voice hoarse yet tinged with amusement. "You're not Mengsk's dogs, are you?"
He still hadn't looked at Leon or Mike. Instead, he reached for a remote control on the bar and pressed a button.
An old TV mounted on the bar's side flickered and buzzed to life.
"This is UNN's live broadcast. I'm anchor Wormilian," announced a slick-haired man in uniform, seated stiffly. "We interrupt to bring you breaking news. Let's go live to our correspondent on the edge world Mar Sara—Kate."
The screen cut to a black-haired female reporter.
Tat… tat tat!
BOOM… BOOM!
She stood in a city street. As soon as the feed switched, gunfire erupted in the background, and flashes of explosions lit up her pale face.
"This is Kate!" she shouted, voice trembling from fear.
THUD—THUD—!
The rumble of bolter fire was loud and distinct in the background.
The screen shook violently as if the cameraman had been knocked by a blast wave.
When the feed stabilized, several Dominion siege tanks were burning in the distance, and in the sky, unfamiliar aircraft—unlike anything in the StarCraft universe—hovered overhead.
"They're even disrupting all military communications," Kate continued desperately. "But they've deliberately left civilian signals intact—clearly they want the Dominion to see what's happening!"
Back in the studio, Wormilian looked stunned. "Could it be Jim Raynor's infamous Raiders?"
"Absolutely not!" Kate declared. "Their power, size, and gear are far superior to Raynor's forces!"
Just then, a Dominion soldier rushed into frame: "Miss Rockwell, we have to evacuate! We don't have time!"
The screen spun wildly before freezing on the image of several Thunderhawk gunships overhead—then cut off abruptly.
The broadcast returned to the studio. Wormilian, sweating profusely, awkwardly wiped his brow and tried to recover.
"…Please don't panic, dear viewers!"
He forced a professional smile, continuing, "The Dominion remains strong! These attackers are just posturing! Once our main fleet arrives on Mar Sara, we'll crush these lawless invaders!"
His voice rose in pitch, as if trying to convince himself.
The director quickly cut to footage of the Dominion fleet—rows of battlecruisers lined up in space, an intimidating display.
"And now, a special announcement," Wormilian said cheerfully, "Has your child used neural enhancers? The latest generation has just been approved by the Imperial Ministry of Health…"
Click. Click.
The burly man turned down the TV's volume, quieting the bar.
He swiveled his barstool and, for the first time, looked directly at the two unexpected guests.
"So…" he said with a dry chuckle, "that force mopping the floor with Mengsk's army—that's your doing?"
His gaze flicked between Leon and Mike.
"Jim Raynor," the man added with a self-deprecating grin, extending a calloused hand. "As that idiot on TV said, the infamous terrorist."
"Mike Monady," Mike replied, shaking his hand with a grin, then nodded toward Leon. "And this serious-faced fellow is Leon S. Kennedy. We're just… average employees."
"Average?" Raynor raised a brow. "With moves and gear like that?"
Leon ignored the sarcasm and said bluntly, "We're from the Human Empire of the Prime Universe."
"Ha!"
Raynor downed a gulp of whiskey and laughed. "That's a good one. What's next, you came here on a magic carpet?"
Mike sighed, shook his head, and activated the device on his wrist.
A holographic projection rose, displaying a colossal dimensional gate spanning the sky, starlight swirling within—breathtaking in its beauty.
"This connects our universe to yours," Mike explained, swiping the display to reveal a lavish golden palace. "This is our Imperial Palace."
The next footage made Raynor's glass freeze mid-air—
A group of tall Sangheili (Elites) with grey-glowing skin trained alongside "mortal" support troops.
Next came a cadre of long-eared elves operating unfamiliar equipment in a laboratory.
"These effects…" Raynor's throat moved. "Pretty damn convincing."
"That one who busted down the door," Leon added calmly, "is a member of our Emperor's lineage—an Astartes of the Salamanders Legion. Out of armor, they average over two and a half meters tall."
"Emperor?" Raynor's expression darkened. The glass creaked in his grip. "Another self-styled ruler?"
His voice dripped with contempt. "Let me guess—this 'Emperor' also hides in a palace and sends troops to crush anyone who opposes him?"
Leon and Mike both noticed how Raynor's right hand clenched at the mention of "Emperor"—his veins bulged, knuckles whitened. He looked like he might shatter the glass any second.
But Leon didn't argue.
He silently tapped his terminal, displaying another hologram.
There stood Samuel Young, clad in black-gold armor, radiating power. With hands raised, a storm of brilliant psychic energy erupted around him, incinerating entire ranks of enemies.
Then came Athena, spearing through bullet storms like a goddess of war, Hera casting spells that fried entire armored battalions, and Astartes charging shoulder-to-shoulder with Greek demigods—unrelenting and unstoppable.
Raynor's eyes widened.
Despite all he'd seen traveling the sector—even the Protoss' psionics—these scenes were beyond belief.
His lips trembled, as if words caught in his throat.
Ahem.
Mike cleared his throat, cutting in smoothly, "Our Emperor isn't some palace-dwelling bureaucrat. He's more like… a walking god—he's lived for centuries, personally led humanity's technological leap, and opened the path to the multiverse."
Raynor's expression shifted from shock to complicated hesitation. He put down the now-cracked glass and took a deep breath.
"What do you want from me?"
"Cooperation," Leon said bluntly. "The Human Empire intends to unify this sector—and eventually, the entire universe."
Raynor's brow furrowed. Before he could speak, Mike added, "But we're a people-first civilization. The reason we're pounding the Dominion is because of what they've done to civilians on Mar Sara."
He pulled up real-time footage of the front-line base near the dimensional gate—
On the desert plains, a neatly arranged refugee camp had sprung up.
Hundreds of white temporary habitation pods stood in perfect rows, each outfitted with climate control and private bathrooms.
Medical drones moved between them, examining the elderly and children. Automated food carts delivered steaming hot meals along set routes.
Further away, heavy construction machines roared.
Giant 3D printers spat out building modules, erecting permanent housing at a pace visible to the naked eye.
Plans showed a future city with schools, hospitals, and aerial farms.
"All rescued civilians receive genetic screening and medical care," Mike pointed at children playing with toy Salamander soldiers. "We rebuilt their identity records, ensured every family gets a new home and proper welfare."
Raynor spotted a few kids hugging their toy Salamander figures—completely at odds with his memories of what a military looked like.
(End of Chapter)
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