The clearance operations across planet Dorito were executing with absolute mechanical precision.
Following Yadodo's departure sequence, the remaining greenskins fell into an even more severe, highly chaotic inner war of attrition. Their underlying genetic code forced them to completely ignore the reality that their territories were actively being breached by Imperial forces; their primitive focus was funneled exclusively into crushing rival skulls to claim the title of the new Boss.
Consequently, while the overall volume of the greenskin host had scaled down significantly, the sheer violence index of their localized conflicts spiked to an unprecedented threshold.
This offered immense tactical convenience to the Imperial clearance campaign.
The ground forces of the Tithe Fleet, operating in lockstep with the Bruvis Expeditionary Force, split into dozens of highly mobile battle groups, executing massive dragnet sweeps across every tracked greenskin settlement on Dorito.
The Ork Bosses locked in internal conflicts were fundamentally incapable of organizing any semblance of a unified defensive front. Faced with the heavy kinetic weight of Imperial ordnance, their lines collapsed like wheat before a scythe, falling in massive, contiguous blocks.
In a span of a mere ten standard solar shifts, every single greenskin commander possessing enough administrative weight to pose a threat had been systematically liquidated.
Yet this constituted nothing more than the preliminary phase.
The most terrifying variable regarding the greenskin species was never their individual combat units, but rather their omnipresent, hyper-resilient spores. Provided a single spore evaded destruction, it would inevitably germinate to manifest an entire planetary host over a prolonged timeline.
To permanently excise this biological threat, Dominic issued a ruthless yet mathematically definitive directive—scorched earth.
"Instruct all capital ships to initialize a continuous, carpet-bombardment sweep across the entirety of Dorito's surface grid!"
"Disregard all ammunition conservation protocols regarding incendiary payloads. I want the entire surface of this world brought to an absolute boil!"
The exact millisecond Dominic's authorization cleared, dozens of Imperial warships opened fire in unison.
Tens of thousands of heavy incendiary munitions trailed massive columns of fire as they poured through the upper atmosphere. These specific ordnance payloads were packed with high-purity promethium, generating thermal spikes scaling into thousands of degrees—and once the chemical ignition was achieved, the reaction was practically impossible to suppress.
The entire profile of planet Dorito instantaneously converted into a colossal, burning sphere.
Raging firestorms tore across the surface grid, maintaining absolute kinetic intensity for seven full standard shifts. Every single mushroom field, squig ranch, and crude greenskin structure was reduced to fine ash within the inferno. Even the deep spores embedded several meters down into the topsoil were systematically baked by the extreme thermal conduction, completely losing their biological viability.
When the massive fires finally burned through their fuel reserves and died down, planet Dorito was altered beyond recognition.
The landscape that had once radiated a vibrant, choking green was now a black desert of scorched ruins. The lower atmosphere was thick with dense smoke and the sharp, pungent reek of carbonized matter, dropping surface visibility parameters to less than ten meters.
Yet the margin of safety remained insufficient.
To guarantee absolute strategic resolution, Dominic authorized the deployment of hundreds of thousands of combat automata and specialized cybernetic servitors to execute a definitive sweep of the crust.
These heavy units, outfitted with massive promethium flame-projectors, maintained continuous 24-hour patrol routes across the surface grid. They skipped zero coordinates; any patch of topsoil calculated to harbor trace spore elements was subjected to a secondary, high-intensity thermal sweep.
Their primary operational programming contained only a singular directive: burn, incinerate, achieve absolute carbonization.
This exhaustive purge operation was sustained for nearly a standard month. By the time the final servitor unit retrograded into its drop-craft, planet Dorito had effectively converted into a smooth, black, completely denuded sphere.
Not a single trace of green remained visible across the terrain, and sensor suites registered zero ambient greenskin energy signatures.
The agricultural world that had been brutally ravaged by the Ork occupation for over two standard years had finally secured a long-overdue window of absolute stillness.
...
Standing anchored across the viewing deck of the Peak Obsidian, Raynor studied the blackened world rotating slowly beneath the viewport, a complex array of calculations running through his mind.
"Remarkable," Raynor articulated in a quiet tone.
"A mere standard month prior, this theater functioned as an absolute greenskin paradise. Now, it is highly probable that not a single functional spore exists across the entire crust."
Standing adjacent to his flank, Dominic's features formed a distinctly prideful smile.
"This is standard operational procedure," Dominic remarked with an air of complete indifference.
"When you engage greenskin assets, this is the only mathematically viable approach. You must extract the root alongside the weed; otherwise, give them a brief operational window, and their lines will inevitably mount a full comeback."
Raynor nodded, thoroughly validating the logic.
Internally, he quietly computed the financial and logistics ledgers.
Had he been forced to execute this campaign without Dominic's massive naval capital, the initial thermal clearance phase alone—calculated against the current infrastructure and economic constraints of Bruvis—would have absorbed at least two to three standard years of continuous deployment. Furthermore, achieving this degree of absolute sterilization would have been highly improbable.
Dominic had not only broken the back of the greenskin occupation forces, but he had also cleared the entire planet's surface at zero cost to Raynor's administrative ledger, even going so far as to absorb the massive logistics burden of the impending agricultural recultivation phase.
This asset was not acting like a traditional Tithe Collector; he was effectively operating as a massive humanitarian aid package.
If it weren't for the risk of triggering an unorthodox psychological misunderstanding in the commander, Raynor was nearly inclined to formally address Dominic as his patron benefactor on the spot.
"Lord Dominic, my administration owes you a profound debt of gratitude for this deployment," Raynor stated, his tone carrying an authentic, calculated weight.
"Deprived of your direct fleet interventions, I fail to see how my sector could have successfully resolved this bottleneck."
"Ha, a minor deployment like this lacks sufficient weight to mention," Dominic waved his gauntlet dismissively, maintaining his casual demeanor.
"We operate exclusively for the stabilization of the Imperium, and for the glory of the Emperor."
"Furthermore, the systematic liquidation of greenskin anomalies falls squarely within the core charter of the Imperial Navy."
In reality, Dominic harbored zero genuine concern regarding the resource expenditure.
To his personal record, the singular variable that mattered was that under his direct command, the fleet had successfully neutralized an Ork Warboss tracking toward a legendary evolutionary path. This constituted an ironclad, unassailable merit entry on his record!
The exact millisecond he retrograded to his homeworld, this victory would provide absolute leverage during formal galas and tactical briefings with his contemporaries and junior officers. The mere mental projection of those sequences caused a wave of satisfaction to ripple through his posture.
As for dedicating fleet assets to stabilize Dorito's immediate agricultural aftermath, he calculated it as nothing more than a trivial, low-effort expenditure of manual labor.
Furthermore, the warp storms surrounding the Calixis Sector had demonstrated zero signs of stabilization; he was currently incapable of navigating his armada to any alternate sector. Rather than permitting his crews to rot in a state of absolute stagnation aboard the orbital stations, it was structurally superior to keep them engaged in a functional deployment.
More critically, he was actively relying on Dorito's future agricultural yields to cleanly balance the massive backlog of unpaid tithes currently anchored to the Bruvis ledger.
"Excellent, the clearance phase has achieved absolute resolution," Dominic stated.
"The subsequent sequence dictates the initialization of industrial recultivation."
Raynor smoothly assumed control of the technical briefing: "Affirmative, my Lord."
"I have already issued transport directives, mobilizing a continuous logistical pipeline from Bruvis to deliver massive quantities of nitrates, phosphates, and specialized synthetic fertilizers to our orbital staging grounds."
"Following their arrival, we shall deploy massive planetary distribution matrices across the low-orbit tracks. Working in lockstep with surface agricultural machinery and automated servitor units, we will distribute these chemical compounds uniformly across the entire crust of Dorito."
"Immediately following the saturation, heavy agricultural mechanized units will initiate deep-plowing and leveling operations across the terrain."
"Operating under this sequence, the soil profiles of Dorito will successfully recover to a viable cultivation baseline within a maximum window of six standard months."
"At that specific juncture, we can initialize large-scale cultivation grids for hiss-corn alongside extensive grazing sectors for grox herds. Following an additional minimum window of six months, we will secure our initial harvest yields."
Dominic delivered a slow nod of approval.
This indicated that securing the initial phase of agricultural production would require a standard timeline of at least one full year. While the duration was somewhat protracted, it constituted the absolute maximum velocity achievable under these physical parameters.
Had they been deprived of his fleet's structural assistance, that timeline would have multiplied by several factors.
"Manage the logistical sequences according to your own blueprints, Governor Corvana," Dominic remarked casually, turning back toward the tactical array.
A week later, a grand victory gala was held within the newly repaired banquet hall of the Gemstone.
The attendees comprised the high-ranking officer corps of the Tithe Fleet and the generals of the Bruvis Expeditionary Force. The hall was brilliantly illuminated, the air thick with the clinking of crystal and the hum of celebratory conversation.
Officers toasted one another, drinking deeply to celebrate a hard-won strategic resolution. The atmosphere was saturated with the aroma of roasted meats and expensive spirits, punctuated by frequent outbursts of laughter and cheers.
Dominic sat at the head of the primary table, presiding over a continuous stream of toasts.
Having consumed a significant volume of wine, his cheeks were slightly flushed, and his energy levels were noticeably peaked. He regaled those around him with a colorful, vivid recounting of the campaign—from the initial tactical setbacks at Calth II to the definitive execution at Horseshoe Valley. Every dramatic beat was met with a chorus of approval and thunderous applause.
Raynor sat adjacent to Dominic, watching the proceedings with a calculated, polite smile. He spoke sparingly, only raising his glass occasionally to acknowledge the toasts directed toward his seat.
As the festivities reached their zenith, Dominic leaned back into his heavy chair, rubbing his temples to soothe a looming ache.
"Very well, the matter of Dorito has reached its functional conclusion," Dominic remarked.
"Next on the itinerary, we must execute our retrograde to Bruvis."
"The formal tithe auditing and accounting work is piled high, waiting for our return to resolve it."
Raynor nodded in agreement: "Affirmative. I harbor the same intent."
"Our forces have been absent from Bruvis for a considerable window; I am curious to see the current state of affairs."
"Rest easy, Governor. With Isolde at the helm of the administrative palace, no systemic failures will occur," one of the expeditionary generals remarked.
"That woman is significantly more capable than your initial projections might suggest."
Raynor offered a slight smile but remained silent.
He was intimately aware of "Isolde's" capabilities. Without her managing the internal affairs of the Governor's Palace, he could never have maintained such a singular focus on the front lines of the war.
"Then it is settled." Dominic stood up, stretching his frame with a yawn.
"We depart at first light tomorrow for Bruvis!"
"Tonight, however, we drink until we hit the floor! Hahahaha!"
Raynor offered no further comment, simply watching the celebration continue. Kerrigan sat quietly by his side, her violet eyes downcast, her long lashes casting faint, rhythmic shadows across her eyelids.
Suddenly, Kerrigan reached out, her fingers lightly brushing Raynor's forearm.
Raynor turned his head, locking eyes with her. Her gaze carried a distinct, heavy trace of solemnity.
"Raynor, step outside with me for a moment," Kerrigan's voice was a mere whisper, calibrated only for his ears.
Raynor gave a slight nod, set his glass down, and stood up.
"Pardon me for a moment," he offered a polite smile to the surrounding generals before following Kerrigan out of the banquet hall.
The two moved through the cold, metallic corridors in silence until they reached a deserted observation nook.
"Report, Kerrigan," Raynor inquired softly, studying her grave expression.
Kerrigan stepped toward the viewport, staring out at the silent stars. Her voice was low and heavy: "Raynor, a situation has developed on Bruvis."
"A situation?" Raynor's brow furrowed. "Specify the anomaly."
"A plague," Kerrigan replied, the single word carrying a weight of deep concern.
"An... unnatural contagion has erupted within the Underhive."
Raynor's expression instantly sharpened into a mask of grim focus.
Bruvis was a quintessential Hive World. The Underhive was a realm of permanent shadow, flowing with toxic runoff and choked by mountains of refuse—a structural failure of hygiene. Under normal parameters, it was a breeding ground for a thousand different diseases; a common plague outbreak was hardly noteworthy.
But for Kerrigan to report it with this degree of gravity meant the contagion was anything but standard.
Sensing a pattern, Raynor pressed for details: "Identify the symptomatic profile."
"Highly anomalous," Kerrigan shook her head.
"Infected subjects initially manifest high fevers, coughing, and total physical lethargy—mimicking standard viral strains. However, following a three-day incubation window, they lose all cognitive function. Their eyes turn a vivid, blood-red, and they develop an insatiable, violent hunger for the raw flesh of their own kind."
"Furthermore, their physical strength scales significantly, and their aggression becomes absolute. They mirror the... Poxwalkers we encountered on Dorito."
Raynor exhaled a heavy breath, his voice dropping an octave: "Identical to the Dorito strain?"
"Not entirely," Kerrigan clarified.
"The transmission velocity is slower than the Dorito variant, and the individual resilience of the infected is lower—they can be liquidated by conventional small-arms fire. However, the incubation window is the true threat."
Kerrigan's tone grew even heavier. "During the incubation phase, the infected are indistinguishable from healthy citizens. They can move, interact, and communicate normally."
"This has caused the contagion to spread invisibly through the population. By the time symptoms manifest, it is already too late. This lack of clear detection has pushed the civilian population into a state of absolute panic; people can no longer verify if their neighbors or family members are harborers of the virus."
"Mass riots are breaking out across the lower levels. Countless civilians are attempting to force their way into the Mid-Hive or the Spire to seek sanctuary."
Raynor leaned back against the cold bulkhead, staring at the flickering indicator lights on the ceiling.
What must come, had finally arrived.
The rotting hand of Nurgle had finally reached for Bruvis. The failure at Dorito was merely the opening move of a much larger game.
However, he could not afford to manifest any outward abnormality. Dominic was still celebrating just down the hall. Under standard Imperial communication protocols, there was no logical way for them—stationed at the edge of the system on Dorito—to have received news of a plague on Bruvis so quickly.
If he reacted with too much urgency, it would trigger Dominic's operational suspicion.
"I understand," Raynor transmitted to Kerrigan via their private telepathic link, ensuring no electronic or biological eavesdropping could intercept the thought.
"Your deduction is verified; this is no ordinary plague," Raynor's voice resonated within Kerrigan's mind.
"The Dorito outbreak was delivered via Space Hulks—the 'Grand Gift' Nurgle's fleet intended for us. But the Bruvis strain is a different breed of blight."
"It appears more temperate than the Dorito variant, but it is infinitely more insidious. That long incubation period is designed to allow the rot to saturate the Hive structure invisibly."
"And the panic... that is the true objective. Chaos feeds on the terror and instability of the masses."
Kerrigan nodded, her eyes reflecting her internal worry: "What is our directive? If we permit the contagion to spread unchecked, Bruvis may reach a point of systemic collapse."
"Do not let it trouble you," Raynor reassured her. "I have already engineered a counter-measure."
"Contact The Butcher immediately."
"Instruct him to activate every intelligence node in the shadow network. They are to monitor the Underhive with absolute scrutiny; the microsecond an infected subject is identified, their coordinates must be tagged."
"Then, command him to descend into the Underhive and locate 'The Priest'."
Raynor's mental tone became strictly professional. "Instruct The Priest to immediately authorize the creation of a 'Cult of the Cleansing Fire'."
"The Cleansing Fire?" Kerrigan inquired.
The Priest was the Genestealer Patriarch embedded in the deep Underhive—the first "seed" Kerrigan had planted on Bruvis.
"Correct," Raynor confirmed.
"Genestealers possess a natural biological resistance to Chaos corruption, and their sensory apparatus is hyper-acute—they can detect the scent of infection long before a human medicae. Instruct The Priest to lead his followers under the banner of 'Purifying the Blight and Saving the People'."
"They are to covertly siphon the Underhive populations, segregating the healthy from the infected. As for those who have already crossed the threshold of infection and are beyond biological recovery..." Raynor's voice turned cold.
"Execute them on the spot. Burn the remains immediately. Leave zero biological trace behind."
"Understood," Kerrigan nodded. "I am establishing the link with The Butcher now."
"Ensure the operations remain entirely covert," Raynor cautioned. "No one can discover the link between the Genestealer cults and my administration."
"And Dominic must remain oblivious to the scale of the crisis for as long as possible."
"I understand," Kerrigan squeezed Raynor's hand briefly. "Exercise caution yourself."
"Always," Raynor offered a faint smile.
Kerrigan gave a final nod and moved quickly down the corridor to execute the psychic transmission.
Raynor remained alone by the viewport, staring into the black void.
Nurgle... the game had truly begun.
After processing the data for a brief moment, Raynor adjusted his collar, took a steadying breath, and turned back toward the chaotic illumination of the banquet hall.
When he breached the primary entrance, Dominic was balanced precariously atop a heavy dining table, hoisting a massive keg of ale while bellowing commands at the surrounding officer corps.
"Drink! Every last one of you, drink! No one steps off this deck sober tonight!"
Sighting Raynor's retrograde into the hall, Dominic cleanly vaulted from the tabletop, striding over with a wide grin and slamming a heavy hand onto Raynor's shoulder.
"Corvana! Where did you slip off to? I've been scanning the entire grid for your coordinates!" Dominic boomed with absolute joviality.
"Don't tell me you were secretly caching yourself away from the bar?"
"Far from it, Lord Dominic," Raynor offered a smooth, practiced smile, dropping a seamless piece of cover lore.
"The captain of the Peak Obsidian patched through an urgent secure line regarding baseline logistical re-supply metrics. I simply finalized the administrative routing before executing my return."
"Ha! Trivial details like that should be funneled down to the lower sub-officers to process!" Dominic waved his gauntlet dismissively.
"Tonight constitutes a victory gala; all work parameters are strictly prohibited! Here, consume!"
Without pausing, Dominic forcefully wedged a goblet brimming with spirits into Raynor's grip.
"Empty the cell!"
Raynor offered a helpless, compliant smile, clicked his cup against Dominic's, and drained the contents in a single, continuous swallow.
"Superb!" Dominic roared with laughter, spinning back into the crowd to engage the remaining officers.
Raynor tracked Dominic's retreating, boisterous profile, the superficial smile cleanly dissolving from his features.
"Nothing but endless variables..."
...
At first light the subsequent solar shift, before dawn could breach the horizon, the fleet cleared final combat readiness protocols.
According to the mapped itinerary, the primary weight of the Tithe Fleet alongside the core of the Bruvis Expeditionary Fleet would execute a warp transit back to Bruvis. Only a minimal detachment of cruisers and frigates would remain anchored behind, split between planet Dorito and Calth II station to maintain defensive patrol vectors.
"Engage thrust!"
The exact millisecond Dominic's command cleared, dozens of capital ships ignited their main drives. The massive fleet formed into a precise tactical echelon, breaking orbit away from planet Dorito and setting their vectors toward Bruvis.
The retrograde transit proved highly optimal, registering zero contact vectors with greenskin splinter groups or Chaos raiding parties.
Three standard solar shifts later, the armada successfully breached the perimeter of the Bruvis system.
The exact millisecond the colossal, cloud-choked silhouette of the Hive World materialized across the viewports, a wave of intense celebration rippled through the fleet. Thousands of low-tier nobles and wealthy citizens had spontaneously converged across the orbital spire hubs, waving Imperial banners and throwing floral arrangements to welcome the returning veterans.
Across the high-altitude avenues of the Primary Hive's Spire, dense crowds packed the transit lines. They rained down decorative petals, screaming the designations of Raynor and Dominic into the upper atmosphere.
"Long live Governor Corvana!"
"Long live Rear Admiral Dominic!"
"For the Emperor!"
The raw volume of the synchronized cheers shook the atmospheric dampening fields.
Dominic sat anchored within an open-topped grav-carrier, soaking in the frantic adoration of the civilian lines, his features radiating absolute satisfaction. He maintained a continuous wave toward the throngs, his smile brilliant.
Turning toward Raynor, Dominic articulated with visible excitement: "Observe the raw devotion of the citizenry. To draw steel for the Imperium, to stand as a shield for the Emperor—this constitutes the absolute zenith of a warrior's honor!"
Raynor offered a smooth nod of validation, mimicking the gesture with a controlled wave toward the crowds.
Yet his gaze intentionally swept through the neglected gaps and shadows of the lower thoroughfares.
There, embedded in the dark corners, a handful of hyper-pale civilians stood in absolute stillness, their eyes glazed and vacant as they tracked the festive processing.
Raynor's internal temperature plummeted.
The blight had already initialized its spread. This grand, performative display of celebration constituted nothing more than the eerie stillness preceding a planetary storm.
To formally solidify his gratitude toward this "savior from the void," Raynor had issued a specialized administrative decree: a life-sized bronze monument of Dominic would be erected at the Western Gate of the Primary Hive's main plaza.
When Raynor initially delivered the news, Dominic had raised his gauntlets in a performative display of humility, speaking with practiced modesty: "Oh, come now, Governor Corvana, you are far too generous! A minor deployment like mine scarcely warrants such a public monument!"
Yet the manic gleam in his eyes thoroughly betrayed his psychological reality.
From the exact shift the scaffolding initialized, Dominic exploited every single window of downtime to covertly retrograde to the plaza, watching his metal likeness manifest block by block. On multiple occasions, he openly micromanaged the technical artisans, demanding specialized structural adjustments here and anatomical enhancements there, driving for absolute aesthetic perfection.
Tracking Dominic's unadulterated vanity, Raynor found the display mildly amusing.
The Naval Rear Admiral, though occasionally reckless and driven by an intense desire for performative flair, remained a pure, uncorrupted instrument of the Imperial military machine. Deprived of his heavy naval capital, the Dorito campaign would never have achieved such a swift, definitive resolution. Erecting a monument functioned as a logical validation of his functional utility.
Yet beneath this thin veneer of planetary celebration, a foul, rotting pathogen was quietly mounting a critical mass.
Standing before the master floor-to-ceiling viewport of the Governor's Palace, Raynor tracked the brilliant, neon line of the hive below, letting out a soft sigh.
Bruvis truly possessed an unfortunate structural destiny across the timeline. First an Ork offensive, followed by a Chaos insertion vector, and now an active bio-hazard outbreak. When, precisely, would this sphere clear its parameters for genuine stabilization?
...
Predictably, Raynor's data projections achieved absolute validation.
A mere standard week following the grand triumph parade, the realities of the Underhive contagion could no longer be administratively suppressed. Despite the absolute, iron-fisted quarantine loops executed in the shadows by The Butcher and the Genestealer Cults, the replication velocity of the pathogen scaled exponentially.
In a span of seven solar shifts, upwards of ten million souls across the deep Underhive grid had converted into mindless, shambling Poxwalkers. Massive hosts of infected units roamed the lower industrial avenues, violently throwing themselves at every living biological signature they tracked.
To prevent the bio-hazard from breaching the lower containment thresholds, the Governor's Palace was forced to authorize a total lockdown, sealing every single transit elevator and bulkhead leading into the Mid-Hive or the Spire.
The Underhive had officially converted into an absolute, isolated island.
Colossal firestorms raged across every sector of the lower sectors as specialized containment teams systematically incinerated mountains of infected corpses and contaminated structural blocks. Billions of tons of dense, black carbon smoke billowed upward, choking the lower levels as absolute despair swept through the civilian populations like a tidal wave.
The entire hive structure dissolved into a state of acute panic.
The populations occupying the Mid-Hive and Spire grids initialized panic-hoarding behaviors, clearing out food and water reserves out of an intense fear that the lower containment loops would inevitably experience structural failure. The baseline industrial throughput of Bruvis experienced immediate, negative drag.
Inevitably, data regarding the outbreak breached Dominic's monitoring loop.
Under normal parameters, Dominic possessed zero desire to inject his command into domestic planetary affairs. To his strategic core, the biological mortality rate of the Underhive labor pool carried zero personal relevance. His primary directive remained the extraction of the planetary tithe.
However, this specific plague variant posed a terminal threat to the quality of the mandatory military draft.
Bruvis was strictly scheduled to deliver a massive human capital tithe of three billion raw conscripts to the Imperial Navy. Before these three billion units could be distributed across the active theaters of war, they would be packed with extreme density inside heavy logistical transport hulls.
Should a handful of infected units in the invisible incubation phase successfully slip through the screening protocols, the structural outcome would be catastrophic. A mere cluster of carriers possessed the biological potential to compromise millions of personnel units aboard a single transport ship. Furthermore, the vector could easily be introduced to alternate Imperial target worlds, initializing a galactic-scale containment failure.
The exact millisecond this calculation locked into his processing core, Dominic could no longer maintain his passive stance.
He immediately dispatched a security detail to summon Raynor to his temporary orbital residency.
When Raynor breached the quarters, Dominic was pacing the length of the chamber like a caged beast, his brow locked in a tight scowl and his features thoroughly darkened.
"Corvana, explain the metrics," Dominic demanded the instant Raynor cleared the threshold, halting his pacing.
"What is the source of this Underhive bio-hazard? How has the containment failed to this degree?"
Raynor's features cleanly shifted to display an expression of intense exhaustion and administrative strain. He rubbed his temples, speaking with a heavy, defeated cadence: "Lord Dominic, I am entirely at a loss as to how the contagion achieved this critical mass."
"During the initial phase, our medical officers calculated it as nothing more than a standard seasonal viral strain, leading to a routine response."
"We failed to anticipate that this specific pathogen possessed such highly anomalous, resilient properties."
"You are intimately aware of the systemic environment within the Underhive—the population density is extreme, baseline hygiene is non-existent, and administrative oversight is structurally fragmented at best."
"Minor biological anomalies are a routine occurrence down there; by the time our sensors flagged the divergence, the contagion had already bypassed our standard containment loops."
"As you can deduce, executing high-intensity quarantine operations within that specific environment is mathematically close to impossible."
In reality, Raynor was deliberately understating the true horror of the situation to maintain structural camouflage.
The raw virulence of a Nurgle-seeded plague defied conventional human comprehension; had it not been for Kerrigan's Swarm tracking the vectors early and executing terminal interventions in the dark, the current volume of infected units would have scaled tenfold.
Dominic scowled deeply upon absorbing the brief, speaking in a raspy, weighted cadence: "I harbor zero concern regarding the scale of the logistical bottlenecks. You must secure absolute containment over this contagion immediately!"
"Failing that, the baseline quality parameters for this standard solar cycle's human capital tithe cannot be verified!"
Now that the strategic integrity of the planetary tithe was actively compromised, Dominic cast aside all diplomatic niceties; this constituted his absolute, primary directive.
"The parameters are understood, Lord Dominic," Raynor nodded in validation.
"My administration has routed maximum available capital to the containment loops. However, the vector profile of this specific pathogen is significantly more anomalous than our initial metrics predicted."
"Anomalous? Map the specific variables," Dominic demanded, his brow narrowing.
"The active transmission vectors are far too vast," Raynor's tone dropped into a heavy register.
"It executes horizontal transmission not merely via aerosol droplets and standard bodily fluids, but it is simultaneously capable of vertical transmission via maternal-fetal pathways."
"Furthermore, the most terrifying variable is..." Raynor paused, articulating each individual syllable with cold precision.
"It demonstrates a verified capacity to corrupt inorganic matter."
"Corrupt inorganic matter?" Dominic's features twisted into an expression of unadulterated incomprehension.
"That defies baseline biology. A viral pathogen requires a living host to replicate; it cannot biologically interface with inorganic material."
"I maintained the exact same skepticism initially," Raynor offered a grim, hollow smile, shaking his head. "Yet the empirical data is absolute."
"During the preliminary wave, our medical teams flagged multiple cases where hive citizens who had undergone low-tier, illicit bionic augmentation still manifested acute infection parameters."
"By all standard medical logic, a higher index of cybernetic replacement should yield a mathematically superior resistance profile to biological pathogens."
"Yet as the timeline advanced, the data curves degraded rapidly," Raynor continued smoothly.
"The industrial servitors assigned to the quarantine zones, alongside specialized enforcement units outfitted with sealed, environment-proof hazmat gear, began registering active infection symptoms in rapid succession."
"Our engineering teams performed micro-scans on their protective chassis; zero structural breaches were detected, and vacuum-sealing integrity remained absolute."
"We are currently missing the exact mechanical vector tracking how the pathogen bypassed those physical barriers to initialize infection."
"At this juncture, our data confirms a grim reality: the exact millisecond an asset breaches the outer perimeter of the hot zone, they face a high probability of infection, regardless of their protective gear."
A pathogen capable of corrupting inorganic substrate?
This data effectively shattered standard human understanding. This had bypassed the parameters of a biological outbreak.
This was... true Chaos corruption.
Dominic raised his gaze, fixing a severe look onto Raynor.
"Corvana... are we tracking an active deployment from the Lord of Plagues?"
Raynor met Dominic's intense gaze, delivering a slow, heavy negative shake of his head, his expression completely blank yet profoundly solemn.
"The database lacks a definitive identification."
"But I am certain of one metric: our sector has encountered a catastrophic tactical bottleneck."
"Compounding the threat index, a cluster of heretical cults have initialized mobilization sequences in lockstep with the plague's expansion," Raynor supplemented, his voice laced with calculated administrative concern.
Dominic halted his pacing entirely, his brow locked into a brutal scowl.
Leaning his frame back against the cold, metallic surface of his master command desk, he gestured with his cybernetic gauntlet, authorizing Raynor to unpack the intelligence data.
"At this current microsecond, the Underhive grid has birthed at least four major heretical factions. Each has secured localized infrastructure nodes, initializing open kinetic conflicts against one another, reducing the lower levels to an absolute, chaotic soup."
Raynor raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, adopting a weighted, exhausted cadence:
"The primary faction identifies as the Redemptionists. These units practice an extreme, militant devotion to the Emperor, harboring a pathological hatred for any entity they classify as 'The Enemy of Mankind'."
"Their operational doctrine is brutally aggressive; they advocate for the absolute liquidation via fire of any civilian who has registered trace contact with an infected subject, alongside the total incineration of contaminated structural blocks, executing their purges with zero administrative distinction."
"Yet the ultimate irony—and the true heretical core of their movement—is this," Raynor paused, a microscopic, imperceptible trace of mockery playing at the edge of his lips.
Internally, however, he couldn't resist a dry critique: this unvarnished brutality is likely the exact, unadulterated reality of what the old corpse on the Golden Throne actually desires.
"They explicitly refuse to recognize the Emperor as a divine deity; instead, they claim he is merely the greatest human to ever occupy the timeline."
"They proclaim that the Emperor's master glory requires zero mediation from a corrupt, bloated Ecclesiarchy, asserting that every true believer must personally purge the foulness of the world with their own bare hands."
Dominic's features darkened to an absolute frost: "A host of suicidal zealots!"
"The secondary faction constitutes the standard subversion vector: the Cult of Chaos Triumphant," Raynor detailed seamlessly.
"The exact millisecond a system-wide disaster initializes, these warp-born parasites manifest like flies drawn to fresh bio-matter."
"They are actively diffusing disinformation streams across the lower strata, branding the contagion as a divine 'Grand Gift' from the Plague Father, inciting the civilian population to cease all defensive resistance, embrace the warp, and claim a twisted version of immortality."
"A massive volume of destitute, cornered Underhive laborers have already been compromised by their cognitive subversion programs."
"The tertiary faction identifies as the Cataclysmists."
"These units calculate the plague as a literal divine judgment cast down by the Emperor to systematically punish the historical sins of Bruvis."
"They cite the extreme decadence of the high nobility, the endemic corruption of the planetary bureaucracy, and the total degradation of the lower labor pools."
"Their doctrine dictates an absolute embrace of the pathogen, claiming self-destruction is the singular mechanism to achieve absolute absolution. They are actively sabotaging our medical quarantine arrays and deliberately spreading infected biomatter to ensure the total destruction of Bruvis under this divine judgment."
"The final faction comprises the Nihilists."
"These cells worship absolute emptiness and systemic destruction. They possess zero cohesive theological doctrine and zero long-term strategic objectives; they operate exclusively to harvest the raw psychological thrill of unchecked violence."
"Exploiting the breakdown of planetary law, they are executing indiscriminate raiding, murder, and looting across the Underhive grid—bombing critical transit conduits, severing primary power lines, and orchestrating a massive volume of localized massacres."
Raynor paused briefly, tracking the increasingly grim, rigid lines of Dominic's expression before adding a stabilizing metric:
"I have already mobilized every available Enforcer division alongside the vanguard regiments of the planetary defense forces to focus our kinetic weight on crushing the Cult of Chaos Triumphant, while implementing containment cordons to throttle the expansion vectors of the alternate factions."
"However, the physical scale of the Underhive is massive; our current personnel pool is mathematically insufficient to police the entire grid."
Regarding the Cult of the Cleansing Fire—the specialized organization he and Kerrigan had personally engineered in the shadows—Raynor maintained absolute, ironclad silence.
Developing a Genestealer Cult infrastructure directly beneath the sensory apparatus of the Imperial Navy was an operational secret that could never be leaked to a single living soul.
Upon absorbing the totality of the briefing, Dominic ran a frustrated gauntlet through his hair.
His entire career capital had been earned by commanding capital ships in open void warfare, converting opposing armadas into expanding fields of molten debris via heavy macro-cannons and lance batteries.
Yet these hidden, heretical subversion cells operating out of pitch-black corridors, alongside the highly tangled, bureaucratic nightmare of planetary governance...
This flavor of systemic bottleneck caused him a far more severe psychological ache than facing an Ork armada possessing a ten-to-one numerical superiority.
He dismissed the technical data with a sharp, aggressive wave of his hand, his tone hardening into a flat line: "Enough. The data parameters are logged."
"Manage the execution vectors of these internal conflicts using your own discretion; my command tracks exclusively for results."
Dominic's underlying strategic intent was crystal clear: he possessed zero desire to entangle his naval command lines in domestic infrastructure failures.
His focus was funneled into two singular data points: first, that planet Bruvis avoid absolute structural collapse, and second, that his allocation of three billion qualified, mutation-free military conscripts be fully processed and delivered on schedule.
In reality, his tactical processors had already calculated the worst-case scenario.
He had witnessed the apocalyptic devastation of Chaos-born plagues across the timeline; he knew with absolute certainty that once a warp-contamination vector achieved critical mass, it was functionally irreversible by conventional means.
Even allowing for Raynor's exceptional administrative competence, completely eradicating this flavor of bio-hazard was highly improbable.
His singular expectation was that Raynor exert maximum administrative weight to preserve the structural integrity of the Spire and Mid-Hive sectors, preventing the entire Hive World from converting into a silent, dead tomb.
"The parameters are perfectly understood, Lord Dominic," Raynor stated, executing a precise, polite tilt of his frame, his features maintaining a mask of absolute professional composure.
Dominic delivered a sharp flick of his gauntlet, authorizing Raynor to retrograde from the command chamber.