Several weeks later.
The Human Federation, Central Assembly Hall.
This was the highest chamber of governance within the Federation.
"Based on our rough calculations," reported Hulcor, the Federation's foremost cybernetic scientist, "to restore our technology to pre-war levels will take at least forty thousand years, possibly longer…"
His words fell heavy on the thousands of assembled senators. Faces darkened across the hall.
The Federation itself had existed for only twenty thousand years. Recorded human history stretched back scarcely forty thousand.
And now, a single war had undone them so completely that it would take longer than their entire history to recover?
To the senators, this was intolerable.
One rose, unable to hold back:
"Is there any way to shorten the time?"
Hulcor sighed, the helplessness clear in his voice:
"I am afraid not. Our knowledge is riddled with corrupted data. Without artificial intelligence or cyborg auxiliaries to sift through it, we are left with only human minds and crude computational machines. The task is beyond daunting."
At their height, humanity's science had relied almost entirely on hybrid cyborg scholars and advanced AIs. Their processing power and analytical ability dwarfed human capacity by billions of times. Even the most advanced human scientists could not compare.
Many of the Federation's most advanced technologies had required centuries or millennia of computation—even with AI. Without them, progress had slowed to a crawl.
The estimate of forty thousand years was calculated under ideal conditions. In reality, the figure might be several times higher.
Silence gripped the chamber. Heads ached, hearts sank.
The Federation Speaker, more than anyone, grasped the full peril.
Humanity now stood branded as the origin of the corrupted machines, the cause of untold devastation. Every alien civilization scarred by the war seethed with hatred.
Only the sheer size of the Federation kept them alive. Even shattered, humanity still commanded two hundred thousand colonies and a formidable fleet. Enough strength to deter immediate retaliation—barely.
But it was a fragile reprieve.
If humanity failed to rebuild faster than its enemies, the vengeance of the galaxy would fall on them like a hammer.
Minutes dragged on.
When Hulcor finally stepped down, another official approached the dais, visibly uneasy.
"Our surveys indicate that the Warp itself is shifting against us. Warp storms are becoming increasingly frequent. Even with Navigators, the risk of disaster during travel has multiplied."
It was grim news. Yet compared to the staggering loss of technology, this seemed a lesser concern.
Storms in the Warp were, after all, a natural hazard. Annoying, dangerous, but manageable—like the climate turning harsher. The senators listened, nodded, but did not panic.
So the assembly continued, one grim report after another.
By the time the day ended, no one could deny the truth:
The Human Federation's Golden Age was over.
From now on, progress would be slow, halting, and fragile. The march of human civilization had entered a long winter.
---
The Aeldari Dominion
Within the Sanctum of Art, in the heart of the empire.
Kody—his body warped into a form resembling a demon of flesh and bone—knelt respectfully before a high priest in golden robes. The priest appeared as a beautiful middle-aged man, serene yet stern.
Kody had reported his discovery, expecting surprise. Instead, the high priest merely waved a hand dismissively.
"Whether ancient records or daemons of the Warp, such things are trifles. They only confirm what we should already know: our Lord's power exceeds all expectation. That is all. But there is a greater matter you must hear…"
He gestured toward a vast star chart, the expanse of Aeldari dominion carved across the galaxy. His expression hardened.
"Long ago, our Lord delivered prophecy: in a time yet to come, the Aeldari shall face calamity. And more and more of our seers, in these recent centuries, feel it too. A shadow of something vast and terrible gazes upon us.
Yet our people drown themselves in pleasure, blind to what approaches."
The priest's gaze bore into Kody, heavy with meaning.
"You have talent. I tell you now: devote it wisely. Do not waste yourself in indulgence.
If you ignore this warning, when the storm breaks, you will regret it."
Kody froze.
He had heard such fears before, whispered by seers, yet had always dismissed them. Now, hearing the high priest speak so plainly, something in him shifted.
It was as if a veil had been lifted.
For the first time, he wondered if the corruption of their people was not mere folly, but influence—some unseen hand twisting them into complacency, keeping them blind.
Cold sweat beaded on his crimson, claw-like hands. Fear stirred in his chest.
He sank into silence, his thoughts a storm.
At last, after many minutes, he bowed his head lower and answered in a voice far more reverent than before:
"…I understand."