Inside the sealed chambers of the Emperor-class battleship, cold blue light poured from the vaulted ceiling, casting stark illumination on rows of metallic stasis pods.
Faint energy patterns pulsed along the surface of each pod, flickering in and out like shallow breaths.
Within, the young Protoss children once corrupted by Chaos now floated suspended in soft golden stasis fields, their slender neural cords drifting gently like jellyfish tendrils in slumber.
Their faces were peaceful, as if they had simply fallen into a dreamless sleep. Only the faint burn marks on the pod walls told of the danger that had just passed.
Dorn stood before the observation window, his heavy, custom-forged armor glinting with a cold metallic sheen under the chamber's lights.
Arms crossed over his chest, he tapped a knuckle lightly against his forearm, a dull metallic echo ringing in the silence.
His hawk-like eyes peered through the glass, fixing on the children within, his gaze as deep and unfathomable as an abyss.
Beside him, the aging Protoss Executor stood with neural cords slightly trembling, battle scars still fresh on his silver-blue armor.
Gripping his staff tightly, his knuckles glowed faintly with psionic light. His voice was low and hoarse:
"We… failed to detect the corruption of Chaos. Or rather, we know far too little about what you call the Warp."
His gaze swept across the stasis pods, finally settling on one child—
A faint trace of dark energy remained at the tip of their neural cord, like scorched ash barely clinging on.
"Without your intervention, the last spark of Sahunel would've become a puppet of darkness."
"."
Dorn did not reply immediately.
Only the soft hum of stasis fields and the distant rumble of the ship's engines filled the chamber.
After a long pause, the Primarch finally spoke, voice like steel quenched in the fires of a forge:
"Corruption from Chaos never announces itself. It lies dormant in the cracks of the soul, waiting for the moment to strike."
He raised his left hand, armored fingers brushing the reinforced glass, tracing an invisible arc—almost as if sketching out the lingering filth within the children's neural cords.
"The Emperor's blessing may dispel the taint, but the deeper scars upon the soul… they require time to heal."
"Will they… recover?"
The Executor's voice wavered with vulnerability. After all, Protoss society placed tremendous value on the upbringing of its young, and Chaos had nearly brought about total annihilation.
Before Dorn could answer, a voice as cold and clear as moonlight rang from the far end of the chamber:
"They will."
Aoe Losrian walked forward slowly, her silver-white Elven armor rippling with the fluid sheen of moonlit water.
She tucked a strand of golden hair behind her pointed ear, eyes as bright and clear as morning stars. Her gaze passed gently over the stasis pods, tinged with both pity and resolute strength.
"The blessings of the Elves will mend their soul-scars. And under the Emperor's protection, Chaos will find no foothold."
The Executor turned to her, neural cords glowing faintly with emotion. "You… are willing to assist?"
Aoe smiled faintly, like morning mist on a lake: "These children are innocent victims. No different from our own when we once faced the dark."
She raised her hand, conjuring a strand of pure silver-white psionic energy that coiled like silk.
"Our rituals may not rival the vastness of the Emperor's might, but when it comes to soothing the soul, they are honed by millennia of tradition."
At her signal, a dozen Elven warriors silently entered the stasis chamber.
Clad in light armor etched with ancient Elven runes, each of their steps resonated with a rhythm only they could feel.
Leading them was a high priestess carrying a crystalline staff. Atop the staff floated an orb like a small star, glowing gently yet powerfully—its brilliance glazing the metal pods in silver light.
The priestess began chanting prayers in the Elven tongue, syllables flowing like water over stone.
The other warriors spread out among the pods, placing their hands above each lid. Silver-white energy streamed from their palms, seeping into the pods and gently intertwining with the children's neural cords.
The once-tainted psionic channels gradually shed their last shadows, returning to their original pale-blue radiance.
Dorn watched in silence, his eyes eventually returning to Aoe.
She stood with eyes closed, hands crossed over her chest, as a more concentrated psionic glow rose from her brow. It unfurled like gauze over the central stasis pod.
At the moment her energy touched the child within, the child's tightly furrowed brow slowly relaxed, and a faint smile curved on their lips.
"The blessing of the Elves is not about banishing darkness by force," Aoe said gently, eyes opening. "It awakens the light within the soul. As long as hope remains in their hearts, Chaos cannot take root."
The Executor's neural cords flickered violently in awe. He bowed deeply, offering the highest honor a Protoss could to both Aoe and Dorn:
"Sahunel will never forget this grace."
Dorn gave a slight nod, turning his gaze back toward the pods.
Through the glass, he saw the child who had been most deeply corrupted now curl slightly in unconscious motion, like a fetus returning to the womb.
The corner of the Primarch's mouth moved almost imperceptibly, before settling once again into its usual stern lines.
Perhaps the sight of the redeemed children made Dorn think of the future—of the child he and Aoe Losrian, his Elven wife, might one day have once Chaos was finally extinguished. Or perhaps it was something else that briefly stirred his expression.
"Seventy-two hours from now, they will awaken."
Dorn turned toward the door, servos in his armor humming deeply. "At that time, the survivors of Sahunel must choose: leave and seek a new home—or take up arms as allies of the Imperium of Man."
The Executor straightened, neural cords flaring with steadfast blue light. "The answer is already clear, honored Primarch. When darkness devours the stars, no species survives alone."
As his voice faded, the chamber door slid shut behind Dorn, sealing the silvery light of the stasis pods within.
In the shadows of the corridor, the Primarch stood unmoving like a mountain.
In the distance, the battleship's engines roared with steady rhythm—like the unceasing heartbeat of the Imperium.
The dark gray alloy corridor stretched on beneath cool lighting. On either wall were embedded the twin insignias of the Imperial Aquila and the Imperial Fists Legion.
Dorn's magnetic boots thudded heavily against the floor, each step echoing with metallic finality. The hum of his armor's servos reverberated down the passage.
Aoe Losrian walked beside him with light, graceful steps, her silver-plated armor gleaming softly in the lights—a striking contrast to Dorn's rigid, angular warplate.
The two had received direct orders from the Emperor himself not long ago, rerouting them urgently from Terra to Mar Sara.
The situation in Universe 18 (StarCraft) was deteriorating.
Chaos forces had clearly set their sights on this region of space. The combined fleets of Athena and four Astartes companies were being pushed to the brink—and lurking in the background was the ever-ambitious UED (United Earth Directorate).
Dorn, the most stoic and least emotionally reactive of the Primarchs, paired with Aoe, a psionically gifted Elven priestess, were the perfect reinforcements.
"Those children..."
Aoe's voice broke the silence of the corridor like a flowing stream.
"If given proper guidance, their psionic potential is immense."
She waved her hand lightly, and a strand of silver psionic energy spiraled through the air like morning mist.
"The Protoss' neural cords have even greater psionic affinity than humans. Perhaps even purer than ours."
Dorn did not slow his pace, but responded, voice deep and resolute:
"Indeed. In appearance, they resemble the Sangheili of Universe 08… natural-born elite warriors. But when it comes to psionic aptitude, the Protoss far surpass them."
He turned his head slightly toward Aoe. "Most elites are pure warriors, with no understanding of psionics. But the Protoss—"
"—are born psionics." Aoe finished with a soft smile.
"Their civilization is built upon a psionic network. Each individual is a node within it. With the Emperor's guidance, their potential won't be limited to survival."
At the end of the corridor, an airlock door slid open, revealing a spacious internal train station.
A sleek maglev train hovered over its track, windows glowing with soft white light. Dorn and Aoe stepped inside, the doors silently closing behind them.
The train began moving with barely any motion, only the faintest magnetic hum. Outside the window, the battleship's inner structure passed by in a web of steel.
Maintenance tunnels sprawled like spiderwebs. Technicians and automated drones worked on turret arrays. Surveillance lights blinked red as drones darted through conduits.
Aoe's gaze settled on a distant viewport. Through its thick glass, Mar Sara's blue surface shimmered under the star's light.
"I've notified the new city," Dorn said, interrupting her thoughts. "They're preparing to receive at least forty thousand Protoss refugees."
He summoned a holographic display, showing a topographic projection of Mar Sara's surface.
"Ecological Dome Sector 7 can be temporarily converted into a refugee zone. Its climate control system is the most stable."
Aoe nodded slightly. "The Elven medical teams will assist. Those recently awakened children will need special care."
She pointed at the projection, marking key areas.
"Here, here, and the northern auxiliary buildings—we can set up psionic stabilization fields. Their neural cords will need time to adapt to purified psionic flux."
As the train slowed, the transparent barrier ahead revealed the massive interior of the command bridge.
Above, a vaulted ceiling displayed a slowly rotating holostar map showing the real-time state of the entire star system.
Imperial Fists in light power armor worked at ring-shaped consoles, data streams casting blue light over their focused faces.
As the doors opened, Dorn stepped out first—his custom armor imposing under the bridge lights.
A fleet officer in deep-blue uniform stepped forward and saluted with a fist to the chest. "Lord Primarch, the new city has confirmed the refugee intake plan. Sector 7 will be ready within six hours."
Dorn nodded. "Inform the stationed Salamanders to tighten the perimeter. The Protoss are allies, but Chaos-tainted individuals may still be among the refugees."
"Already done," the officer replied. "Also, Lady Athena's three-company fleet is continuing its pursuit of the fleeing Tal'darim. Meanwhile, the Protoss High Templar's main force appears to be mobilizing. Their target may be our occupation zone. Lady Athena advises caution."
As the officer gave his report, Aoe stepped beside Dorn, her gaze falling on the main display showing the refugee fleet.
The scarred Protoss vessels floated silently, surrounded by Imperial escort ships like wounded beasts at rest.
"I understand. Inform Lady Athena that the Imperial Fists will secure the rear. She may focus fully on the Chaos threat.
And..." Dorn's voice echoed across the bridge, each word iron-bound, "The Imperium of Man will uphold its duties as an ally—but all Protoss who set foot on Mar Sara must undergo full psionic screening."
He turned to Aoe. "The Elves from Terra are best suited to this task."
Hearing that, Aoe smiled faintly, her features ethereal in the bridge's cold light.
Her fingers summoned a wisp of silver psionic light, tracing ancient Elven runes into the air—symbols that sparkled like stars and flowed with meaning.
"They are already standing by," Aoe said, voice calm and clear like moonlit water. "No trace of Chaos corruption will escape our sight."
Outside the bridge's observation windows, the blue orb of Mar Sara filled the entire view.
Once a war-scarred desert world, it now gleamed with renewed life—emerald forests and sapphire oceans sparkling under its protective shield, while aurora-like energy danced across the surface in ever-changing patterns.
Farther out in deep space, countless starship engine flares blinked like stars.
Refugee fleets from across the Protoss worlds gathered in orderly formations under Imperial guidance.
Though scarred and trailing plasma leaks, these elegant vessels still carried the innate dignity of their creators.
Near the warp entry points, more ships dropped out of FTL—engines blazing blue-white as they decelerated into realspace.
Clearly, the Imperium of Man had made its name known in the StarCraft universe.
Even the proud, rigid, tradition-bound Protoss now instinctively chose to seek refuge on Mar Sara when faced with the unknown horrors of the Warp.
The holoprojectors continuously updated with new refugee vessel IDs. Data streams scrolled across every console. Every second, another Protoss clan joined the queue for sanctuary…
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