Korhal IV, Augustgrad.
Grotesque shadows had already cloaked the skies, yet above the Terran Dominion's imperial palace, daylight still shone bright.
On the horizon, around the basalt foundations of Augustgrad's palace, gunfire raged unchecked. The shriek of laser fire pierced the air, guided missiles streaked in curved trajectories across the sky like hunting serpents.
The Dominion Marines' comm channels roared with orders and fury.
Shattered vehicles littered the battlefield, alongside debris from orbital defense platforms and satellite fortresses strewn across the landscape to the very edge of sight.
No matter how many times such scenes unfolded, they remained the favored subjects of embedded chroniclers: the poets, journalists, photographers, painters, and novelists who never tired of capturing war's chaos.
Even stripped of its former prosperity, the city still stood magnificent.
Upon a wasteland of glassed nuclear ash, Arcturus Mengsk himself had rebuilt this towering steel metropolis. It was a miracle of rebirth.
From the heavens, the city's layout resembled mercury frozen at the instant of impact within a petri dish.
At the center rose the silver spire of a vast pyramid palace, tapering into the clouds, while the surrounding buildings sloped down toward the city's edge.
That supreme peak belonged to one alone—the Emperor of the Terran Dominion. The palace was the Korhal system's—and the Dominion's—strongest bastion of military power.
Its massive, pyramid-fortress structure dwarfed every surrounding edifice in scale, height, and bulk.
Its stark lines and Gothic austerity clashed with the sleek, modern towers around it, as if declaring its own grim authority.
It was Arcturus Mengsk incarnate—symbol of singular power, cold, harsh, uncompromising.
"...Soldiers of the Dominion, I am your leader, Arcturus Mengsk. At this moment, I must announce grave news. Just now, our shared home, jewel of the Dominion—Korhal—has come under attack by an unknown invader."
"The enemy has struck treacherously. Our orbital defenses suffered devastating losses. Our fleets bleed in bitter struggle. Korhal's fate hangs by a thread. This is no mere skirmish—this is war, long prepared. Just as the United Earth Directorate once invaded us, so too do these beasts beneath the twin-headed eagle seek to enslave us."
"Think, citizens of the Dominion! After them come brutal armies and lofty colonizers, ready to land and crush freedoms they themselves have never known."
"They would strip from us the lands, freedoms, and families our ancestors carved through blood and fire. They would bind us with chains of oppression and plunder."
"We face hardship, yes. We stand at a disadvantage. But I believe—so long as each of us does his duty, vigilant and steadfast, we will prove again that we have the strength to defend our home, to weather the storm of war!"
"Liberty or death!"
"I will stand firm on Korhal. With her seven billion souls, we will endure together. Proud sons and daughters of Korhal, we shall never yield! These foolish tyrants will break upon Korhal's walls once more, shattering themselves upon our defiance!"
"Now, to every fleet across the Koprulu sector: return to Korhal at once. Move immediately! Warriors, defend our home… zzzzzt."
BEEP. BEEP.
At the pinnacle of the great pyramid-palace, within chambers warm as spring, a retro-styled control terminal flickered. Its split screens displayed the Emperor's fiery speech alongside battle reports from across the Korhal system.
Click. Someone switched the feed off after the address ended. The vast office fell silent, deathly still, as if empty.
"Huuuuh…"
Breaking the silence, no longer the image of defiance seen on the public broadcast, Arcturus slumped heavily into a gilded, high-backed chair. His beard, streaked white, marked the toll of years. To most men, it would signal fatigue and decline—but to Arcturus, it lent his stern dignity greater weight.
From the desk drawer, emblazoned with the Mengsk family's golden wolf crest, he drew a cigar. Cut, lit, inhaled.
Leaning back, he let the leather cushions embrace him, eyes fixed on the enameled ceiling above, his face unyielding but shadowed by thought.
Warm wall sconces cast a golden glow across the lofty chamber, yet could not touch the chill within his heart.
RUMBLE…
On either side, floor-to-ceiling mirrors—panels of countless lenses set in symmetry with the arched windows—shuddered under the chaos outside. By day, they turned with the sun's light. Now, they spun erratically, reflecting bursts of fire and explosion across Arcturus's broad back.
Time slipped by.
BZZZT—
A voice cut through: "Sighing so deeply, it seems you are not as confident as your speech claimed."
On the split-screen terminal, a young man appeared—fair-haired, features echoing Arcturus's own youth, six parts similar.
"Boy, spare me your insolence."
Arcturus's deep, commanding voice rose at last. "You have much yet to learn. Never show weakness before your subjects. A son of House Mengsk must never bare his thoughts before the world."
"When men know what you think, they no longer fear you. That, my son, is today's lesson. Free of charge."
"Still that same infuriating tone of lecture. My… father. Do you realize? This fate is of your own making."
"Big words, boy… I have done terrible things, yes. But—"
Arcturus paid his son's defiance little heed. He swirled aged port in a crystal glass, its amber liquid catching the light.
"You are Valerian Mengsk. I gave you that name. All you are comes from me. You prosper because of my deeds. Strip away the title of Arcturus's son, and remember this: without me, you are nothing."
In short: I am your father.
"…So, you are the rat trapped in a cage. And now you invoke our blood-ties. What then—do you expect me to lead my fleet to Korhal, to save you—"
"No."
The word cut him off sharply. Arcturus's eyes narrowed, studying the familiar lines of his son's face. He exhaled a smoke ring, words edged like blades. "As my son, you must live. Not die needlessly."
"What?"
Onscreen, Valerian blinked in surprise, almost scoffing. "Concern? From you? Such great paternal love—I am almost moved."
"If you wish, you may take it so."
Arcturus listened to the distant roar of battle, speaking softly: "Do not squander the life Juliana and I gave you. As I told you on that day of farewell—since you have proven worthy, the Mengsk name is yours to bear." (Juliana Pasteur: Arcturus's wife, Valerian's mother.)
"Worthy?"
Valerian arched a brow, smirking in self-mockery. "A bookworm, a weakling, and a girl—those were the three words you once branded me with. I'll remember them for life! And now you tell me I'm worthy? What's this? You won't flee? Or is it that you know you can't escape, and you beg me to avenge you when your Dominion falls?"
"Vengeance is yours to decide."
Arcturus's reply was calm, dismissive. "And I stand by my judgment. It does not contradict itself. At that time, you were a bookworm, a weakling, a girl—worthless."
"This is the mind of a leader, of a patriarch. Must I teach you again? The Mengsk family has stood in the Koprulu sector for generations. Its glory outweighs all."
Still, he showed no mercy.
"Any son of mine, if he would be counted among the family and heir to its name, must be brave and wise, diligent, rich in martial virtue, ruthless to enemies, guiding his subjects to strength and prosperity, and ever mindful of the family's survival. Weaklings and fools cannot wield great power, nor hold the family's future. Even if he were my son, he would be cast aside."
"And you…"
Arcturus's gaze hardened on the son he had scarcely shown affection to—his only son. "You are the only choice left to me. Not the best choice. Merely the only one."
There was no love here. Arcturus desired only the continuation of the Mengsk line. Who carried it mattered little.
Valerian knew this well. He existed as insurance. If his father survived this catastrophe, he would surely retract every word, break every vow, and cast him aside again.
"..."
After a pause, Valerian's lips curved in a cold smile. He changed the subject: "Jim Raynor's Raiders are now in joint fleet with me… and Sarah Kerrigan has led the Swarm to Korhal. She seeks your death. There will be no peace."
"I know."
"She is already here." Arcturus drained his port, slammed the glass upon the desk, drew deep from his cigar, and strode to the window.
Beneath the chamber's ornate paneling, hidden communication relays and anti-intrusion systems hummed under AI control, ensuring smooth interstellar link. Cameras swiveled automatically as he moved.
"Both sides want my head. Let them come. Here it is!"
"In truth, I hope our dear Miss Kerrigan is strong enough. That her Swarm can crush these unknown, violet-gold humans. Best of all—if both bleed each other dry. Mutual ruin."
From the pinnacle office of the great pyramid, dizzying in its height, the cameras shared Arcturus's view. Through gaps between higher towers, Valerian glimpsed the horizon.
The palace's shields rippled endlessly under bombardment. Augustgrad burned, starship wrecks and shattered craft splitting the skyline into jagged teeth.
Where once stars shone, low orbit glowed instead with apocalypse: warships locked in duels, contrails of cannon fire drawing scars across the heavens, fleeting as paintings of destruction.
"Not so simple, being the fisherman, is it? You preach of fighting for humanity, yet here you hope the Swarm prevails. You're a hypocrite, father."
Valerian's sneer cut sharp. His father's speech of noble sacrifice was a lie—he remained only because escape was barred.
Had these violet-gold fleets besieged with openings instead of a total encirclement, his father's speech would no doubt have ended: 'I shall return.' 'This is a strategic withdrawal.' 'I will rally the fleet.'
"This is necessity. Another free lesson." Arcturus's voice grew hard. "Humans will steal your triumphs—claim your people, technology, resources. The Zerg will not. Those beasts only kill. And through their terror, they drive the Dominion's people closer under my banner."
"In necessity, the Swarm is but a sharp blade."
"Like the fall of the old Tassanis houses, then?"
No need to speak plainly. "Simple, clean, effective. Isn't it?"
"...Tch. Why don't they just bombard you from orbit?"
"Because they want something here—the Dominion's data vaults. That is the difference between men and beasts."
BOOOOM!
Before he finished, a crashing fireball bloomed from the fall of a battlecruiser a hundred kilometers away. The ground quaked, the pyramid shook, the world itself seemed to warp.
Scorching radiation blazed through the reinforced glass. Arcturus stood hands clasped behind him, unflinching, gazing through the vast windows toward the distant void—where Kerrigan's Swarm clashed with the invaders under the twin-headed eagle.
Arcturus was vexed. These "barbarian fleets" knew no decorum. They had not even declared war—only sent an arrogant missive.
Its translation: Send your leader forth in chains. Surrender unconditionally. The closing words dripped with threat: Kneel, or we shall strike. And strike we shall.
The Dominion, a power of renown in the Koprulu sector! And who were they, to demand this?
It had not even reached Arcturus's desk. Media staff dismissed it as a prank from some gutter world, clicked ×, tossed it into the trash.
And then… they attacked. In force. To the death.
Armies pressed in. Arcturus did not relent. He sent reply after reply, as Emperor, offering talks.
They paused—but answered only with: Do you surrender?
The negotiator, professional instinct reflexively vague, hesitated. And instantly, the "barbarians" launched their assault.
On broadcast, the brute with the blazing red starfish hair bellowed: "Korhal vermin! Stubborn to the last! The righteous host shall march, the Dominion shall fall, the false emperor shall die!"
So brash. Did their Empire even have a foreign ministry?
(Selene: Er… in my Imperial institutions, I don't recall establishing a proper 'Foreign Ministry.')
Against such unreasonable foes, Arcturus had no recourse.
"I can only hope Kerrigan proves her worth… Perhaps I erred, sending Jim Raynor to exile in prison ships. He should have remained in my palace…"
"Bah. No matter. Korhal's orbit has fallen. I must pray these invaders slay Raynor before departure. Then Kerrigan, for love, will drown in rage and hate. She will be magnificent."
He crossed to the wall cabinet, selecting a fine aged port from amidst rare malt and wine. With practiced ease, he pulled the cork, poured into a decanter, swirling as he spoke.
"Do not return to Korhal. If need be—leave the Koprulu sector altogether…"
Even as a lamb awaiting slaughter, his life ticking away, Arcturus showed no despair. He lifted his glass, chin high, issuing commands as always.
Until—
"Hey, hey, hey! Emperor of the Terrans, look here."
"All finished with your chat?"
A tapping on the glass rang sharp, piercing even the reinforced panes and the thunder of battle. It was as clear as a bell.
Arcturus and Valerian both turned. The air rippled. Light caught upon flowing hair, amber eyes, and wings woven of radiance—an angelic figure. And when her prismatic gaze met theirs…
For the first time in memory, Arcturus truly felt death.
"Wa—" He tried to speak.
Then the world spun. Crimson sprawled across the carpet, spreading like spilled paint.
And above it, a voice—silver and sweet, ringing like bells:
"Death to the false emperor!"
—
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