Author's Note:This story removes the Chaos Gods and the Eldar from the Warhammer 40K setting. There is no Warp corruption, no insidious whispers of Chaos tainting the minds of men. The Imperium, still guided by the Emperor, has remained whole and undivided. The Great Crusade continues, and the Legions march unbroken. This is an Imperium of rationality and order, but no less ruthless in its pursuit of Humanity's destiny among the stars. Here, the grim darkness of the far future is not a slow decay, but an unrelenting march toward dominion.

Imperial Palace, Terra – The War Council of the Emperor

The chamber was vast, an expanse of black marble and golden lumens, its vaulted ceilings etched with the deeds of the Imperium. Carved frescoes of victories past and conquests yet to come loomed overhead, illuminated by great banners of crimson and gold. A circular table of polished obsidian dominated the room, its edges inscribed with the names of lost heroes. Seated around it were the demigod sons of the Master of Mankind, each a titan in his own right, each bearing the weight of entire Legions upon his shoulders.

At the head of the table, upon his throne of black marble veined with gold, the Emperor of Mankind sat, silent as a storm on the horizon. His presence was absolute, a weight that pressed upon the souls of all gathered. Golden light radiated from his form, his eyes twin suns burning with unfathomable purpose. His will, an unbreakable force, was felt by all present.

A single sentence fell from his lips, as measured as it was cold.

The Emperor: "They have taken my people."

The words hung in the chamber, an edict that carried the promise of annihilation. A silence followed, dense, suffocating. The air felt heavy, as though reality itself recoiled at what was to come.

It was Vulkan who broke it first, his dark eyes flashing, his massive fists curling upon the table's surface, knuckles white with restrained fury. His normally calm demeanor was shattered, replaced with simmering rage.

Vulkan: "Slaves?"

The Emperor's golden eyes burned brighter, the intensity of a sun waiting to unleash its fury.

The Emperor:"Yes."

The reaction was immediate. A cacophony of rage and resolve filled the chamber.

Angron:"We burn their world. We burn all of them." His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, metal groaning under the pressure.

Guilliman:"Who are they?"

Malcador, the Sigillite, seated beside the Emperor, moved his ancient hands over a control rune, and the air shimmered as a hololithic projection flickered into view. A planet hung in the void, its surface young, its cities incomplete. Above it loomed ships foreign to the Imperium, vessels that bore no familiar insignia. The light cast eerie shadows upon the gathered Primarchs, their expressions hardening with each passing second.

Malcador: "We know little. The xenos who have done this call themselves Batarians. They are slavers by nature. This is not their first atrocity, but it is their first against the Imperium."

Lorgar: "And their last." His fingers traced the sigils on the table, as though writing their doom.

Horus:"They struck a world under our protection. They will know retribution, but we must ensure this is no mere symptom of a greater infection. Do they belong to an empire?"

Malcador:"Unknown. They operate with impunity, which suggests they either have no master or are confident that no authority will rebuke them."

Ferrus Manus:"Then they will learn to fear one."

The Emperor's gaze swept across his sons, the glow behind his eyes the fire of a nascent star, a beacon of divine will. Each of them knew, without question, what was to come.

The Emperor:"The Imperium was founded to liberate Mankind from the yoke of tyrants. These creatures—these slavers—have erred beyond all measure. There will be no mercy. No negotiations. No warnings. We will teach them what it means to steal from the Emperor of Mankind."

There was no debate. There was no hesitation. The room was charged with a singular, focused rage, tempered by discipline honed over centuries.

Rogal Dorn:"Then we prosecute war." His gauntlet closed into a fist, the ceramite creaking under the force.

Sanguinius: "We will see them returned or avenged." His wings rustled, a celestial reaper preparing to descend.

Corax: "This is not war. It is extermination." His fingers flexed, already imagining the hunt.

The Emperor stood. That alone was enough to silence all voices, to still the very air in the chamber. His golden form towered over all, his presence blotting out all doubt, his words the edict of an unchallengeable god.

The Emperor:"Gather the Legions. We will descend upon these slavers as the hammer of Old Night once fell upon Mankind. Their worlds will burn. Their name will be forgotten. Their kind will be wiped from existence. The Imperium does not suffer slavers."

There was no need for further discussion. The sons of the Emperor rose as one, their orders already forming in their minds. Plans were being forged, strategies honed, the first steps toward genocide already unfolding within their indomitable minds. Their eyes, hardened by centuries of conquest, reflected the fire of war now set to consume another world. The room thrummed with barely restrained aggression, a storm waiting to break.

The weight of the moment was not lost on any of them. This would be a war of annihilation, one waged with the cold precision of the Imperium's might. There would be no warnings, no measured diplomacy—only retribution, swift and absolute. No quarter would be given. None would be spared. The Batarians had awoken a force beyond their comprehension, a wrath that had scoured the stars and would do so again.

War had been declared.

The Batarians simply did not know it yet. But they would soon.