Morning mist had yet to lift, but the central plaza of the Augustgrad Palace Complex was already filled with disarmed Terran soldiers.
They had shed their symbol of power—the CMC power armor—wearing only thin fatigues and tactical boots or leather shoes.
Their once-polished boots were now caked in mud, their hard-earned medals torn off, leaving only frayed threads swaying at their collars.
High-ranking officers stood in a separate line. Some tried to stand tall to preserve a last shred of dignity, while others stared blankly at the ground.
More than anyone, they knew how much innocent blood stained their hands.
At the center of the plaza, atop an alloy platform, over twenty of Mengsk's diehards knelt with their hands bound behind their backs, forced down onto the cold metal floor.
These former executioners now wore expressions ashen as death; some still bore the blood of last night's battle on their uniforms.
To the north of the plaza, inside a temporarily repurposed council chamber, a crystal chandelier cast a pallid light across the floor.
Arcturus Mengsk was bound to a simple chair. His once-pristine marshal's uniform was wrinkled like an old rag, and his gray hair hung disheveled.
But what chilled the heart most was the look in his eyes—neither fear nor rage, but a cold calculation, as if still weighing the odds of a last-minute comeback.
"Hahaha!"
Tychus Findlay tapped his armored fingers on his knee, the rough laughter echoing through the hall.
"Old fox. Spent his whole life scheming, only to get checkmated by the pawns he threw away."
As he spoke, Tychus deliberately leaned forward so Mengsk could see the dual insignias of the Raiders and the Human Empire on his power armor. "You know what's the funniest part? The pawns you sent to die—"
His armored finger pointed one by one at Nova, Stone, and the others. "They're all living the good life now."
Nova's nanobattle suit shimmered like mother-of-pearl under the lights. She merely raised her brows slightly at the comment, while Stone stood beside her like a dutiful aide.
"The power gap's too wide,"
Baze Malbus muttered to Chirrut Îmwe loud enough for all to hear, deliberately eyeing Mengsk like he was evaluating livestock.
"In terms of ruthlessness, he's got Palpatine beat. That's about it."
"…"
Mengsk's mouth twitched slightly.
Jim Raynor remained in the shadows, face hidden by gloom.
But Sarah Kerrigan—once the Queen of Blades, now clad in a sleek black bodysuit with psionic energy flowing as gently as a stream—placed her hand on Jim's shoulder. All saw the tightening of the Raider commander's jawline.
"Victors write history,"
Mengsk suddenly spoke.
His gaze swept across Jim Raynor and Sarah Kerrigan, then to the silent officers like Leon, Mike, and Chris, before finally resting on Jim's face.
"If you're going to kill me, then get it over with."
The hall fell into a strange silence.
The chandelier's light cast a spiderweb of shadows across Mengsk's face, accentuating the hollows of his eyes like a skull.
Everyone could sense the "odor" emanating from him—not the stench of fear, but something far worse: the eerie calm of a gambler who had lost everything.
Nova finally took a step forward.
"You think this is the end?" Her voice was unnervingly soft. "No. This is just the beginning of your judgment."
With a gesture, her nanoglove summoned a hologram showing Astartes distributing relief food in civilian zones, children crowding curiously around a Lamenter's power armor.
"During your rule…" Nova's brows furrowed. "Did you ever see such a scene?"
Mengsk's throat bobbed.
Just then, the hall doors opened, and Valerian Mengsk entered in the black uniform of the Human Empire.
The eyes of father and son met in midair. The young prince held up a datapad, speaking coldly:
"Preliminary estimates show that, on Korhal alone, there are 472 mass graves. Should I recite, one by one, how many children and teenagers are buried in each, Father?"
"…"
The word made Mengsk's eyelids twitch violently.
Tychus chuckled again, deep and grim. "Old man, that 'get it over with' line of yours was slick. Wanna repeat it for the crowd?"
Mengsk finally showed his first genuine expression of the night—
Not fear, not anger, but a kind of scornful clarity.
The tyrant leaned back in his chair as though suddenly interested in the ceiling above.
"So…" Mengsk's voice rang out clear and sharp, "this is justice in the new age? A bunch of traitors and executioners hosting a moral symposium in a pool of blood?"
Kerrigan's psionic aura flared briefly, and the temperature in the hall dropped.
But to everyone's surprise, it was the long-silent Leon who replied.
"No."
The intelligence division representative pointed out the window. "Justice is those children no longer fearing false charges, no longer fearing war, no longer wondering what they'll eat tomorrow."
Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window, casting a blood-red patch onto Mengsk's face—like a wound that would never heal.
Suddenly, the very air in the hall seemed to freeze.
Space rippled like water, light refracting unnaturally under an invisible force, warping walls and floors into bizarre geometries.
Tap. Tap.
Clear footsteps rang out.
Not mechanical clangs, but rhythmic, almost musical, each step seeming to strike the nodes of reality itself.
Athena emerged from the shadows.
The Goddess of War stood over two meters tall, yet moved with effortless grace. Her lithe frame was encased in flowing golden armor etched with ancient Greek runes, glowing faintly with each step.
Her face was unnaturally perfect, her golden hair fanning out behind her like a radiant halo.
But her eyes—
They had no pupils, only swirling galaxies, as if one glimpse could reveal the end of the universe.
!!
The once-dominant Mengsk now dug his fingers into the chair's armrests, cold sweat dotting his brow.
It was the primal terror humans felt before a force far beyond comprehension.
Not even in his wildest nightmares had he imagined a true god would appear in such tangible form.
"It is time,"
Athena spoke, her voice like ten thousand whispers layered into an eerie harmony. Every syllable made the glass in the room vibrate.
"The people of the Terran Dominion shall witness the end of a tyrant's rule."
"Hey!"
Tychus grinned, even his armor's servos whirring in apparent delight.
He hoisted Mengsk like a ragdoll, his power-armored arm squeezing the tyrant's chest, ensuring he felt every ounce of its crushing strength.
"Come on, old friend. Time for your final curtain."
Mengsk's feet barely touched the ground as he was half-dragged toward the hall's exit.
As he passed Jim Raynor, the tyrant's lips moved, as if trying to speak, but he ultimately said nothing.
The Raider commander stood in shadow, expression unreadable—only Kerrigan's tightening grip on his shoulder betrayed inner turmoil.
When Mengsk was hauled onto the alloy platform, a hushed uproar broke out across the plaza.
Tens of thousands of disarmed soldiers instinctively surged forward—then retreated just as quickly under the watchful eyes of Astartes and minor Greek deities.
Whispers spread like wildfire—
"Are they really going to execute him?"
"Are we going to be purged too?"
"Will the new regime—"
"Silence."
Athena's voice was not loud, but crushed all noise like a physical weight.
The divine pressure dropped several nearby officers to their knees, chests heaving as if under tons of stone. The plaza fell into dead silence, even the wind seemed to stop.
At that moment, numerous cameras lifted from various angles, some marked with the UNN logo—equipment from the former Terran state media.
Reporter Kate Lockwell, the famed "Golden Voice" who had long criticized Mengsk's regime, stood trembling as she adjusted her collar. Her makeup artist hurried to touch up her pale face.
"This is UNN Main Channel..."
Her voice, broadcast via quantum network across Korhal and the entire Koprulu Sector, still held tremors despite its familiar tone.
"We are live at the central plaza of Augustgrad... witnessing a historic moment—the tribunal of former Terran Dominion leader, Arcturus Mengsk."
The feed cut to the high platform.
Athena's radiant figure stood in stark contrast to Mengsk's disheveled form, the latter forced to kneel on the alloy floor, knees clanging sickeningly against metal.
Tychus loomed like a fortress behind him, ready to crush any resistance.
"By decree of the Human Empire's provisional military tribunal..."
Athena raised her hand, and countless holographic screens appeared around the plaza, displaying crimes from Mengsk's rule—
Secret footage of executions, starving masses in Terran slums, cities wiped out by nuclear strikes.
Most horrifying was footage from an underground lab—rows of infant corpses floating in vats, labeled as "discarded materials" from failed psionic experiments.
Someone in the plaza vomited.
"These…" a major suddenly tore off his epaulettes, "we never knew about these!"
His breakdown triggered a chain reaction. More officers discarded their insignias. Those with remaining conscience pounded the ground.
But Mengsk simply watched, cold and unflinching.
"There's an encrypted database in your escape pod,"
Athena's voice softened unnaturally, more chilling than any roar.
"Shall we show the footage of your 'Scorched Earth Protocol,' where you planned to sacrifice five billion civilians on Korhal?"
Mengsk's brows furrowed. Yet, under countless cameras, with every former subordinate watching, the once-unshakable tyrant refused to bow.
Then—
Space beside Athena twisted like silk in an unseen grip. Golden light burst from her body, each strand a living tendril forming intricate geometric patterns in midair. Even the most advanced cameras glitched.
As the light faded, a towering figure appeared on the platform.
The Human Emperor of the Prime Universe—Samuel Young—stood in black and gold armor inscribed with glowing Chinese runes, gleaming dully in the sunlight.
His face was sculpted and emotionless, his golden eyes aflame with such intensity that merely looking at them stung.
Though only a psionic projection anchored through Athena, the pressure he radiated made everyone present kneel instinctively.
"No... This can't be…"
Mengsk finally broke, voice dry as sandpaper, Adam's apple bobbing.
Samuel slowly raised a hand, and time itself seemed to slow.
As his finger pointed at Mengsk, golden arcs crackled in the air.
"Death is not your end," the Emperor's voice echoed with the weight of countless timelines. "It is the beginning of eternal torment."
A black rift tore open above the platform.
From it spilled a horrifying scene—
A burning red wasteland where countless twisted human forms writhed in magma.
One area stood out: its victims eternally frozen at the moment of nuclear detonation, flesh regenerating only to be vaporized again, over and over.
"Behold, tyrant," Samuel's golden eyes reflected the hellscape. "This is the throne reserved for you."
The plaza erupted in gasps of terror.
On the UNN broadcast, Kate Lockwell dropped her mic with a clack, oblivious. Even Tychus loosened his grip slightly.
Mengsk's face turned ghostly white, sweat pouring from his brow.
His lips trembled, yet he forced out: "Bluff… All of this… is illusion…"
The hellscape expanded, enveloping the entire plaza.
All could feel the searing heat, smell burning flesh. Most terrifyingly, the damned all turned simultaneously—hollow eyes fixed on Mengsk.
"Every wail shall become your lullaby," the Emperor intoned like a funeral bell. "Every torment your eternal companion."
Mengsk finally broke.
He thrashed, screaming hoarsely: "NO! You can't do this! I AM THE FOUNDER OF THE DOMINION! I AM—"
His words cut off as if choked by invisible hands. Only guttural gasps escaped.
The next moment, Mengsk vanished—cast into the hell dimension by Samuel.
Then, the Emperor's projection turned toward the live broadcast, gaze seemingly piercing space and time to meet every viewer's eyes.
"Fellow humans," his voice turned gentle, "from this day forward, you shall no longer live under tyranny's shadow.
But remember—"
The illusion shifted from hell to the Human Empire's prosperity: children laughing in parks, workers on fulfilling jobs, scientists exploring bright labs.
"Freedom always walks alongside responsibility."
With those words, the Emperor's image slowly faded.
As his projection fully vanished, the hellish vision over the plaza dissipated like morning fog—but the memory of that bone-deep horror would forever be etched in the minds of all who witnessed it.
(End of Chapter)
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