(Voice over): It has been over five hundred thousand years.
Five hundred thousand years of hate. Of blood. Of war.
A war so vast it stains not just continents or empires—but time itself. The maps have long since burned away. The names of nations are dust. But the war remains. It stretches across the galaxies like a plague without cure, scorching star systems, shattering civilizations, rewriting the laws of the universe with every passing age. Spacetime itself—that sacred lattice that binds all existence—has begun to tear beneath the weight of so much fury.
Humanity has not known peace. Not for so long that the word has lost its meaning.
And yet… humanity stands.
Oh, how we stand.
We face horrors no mind was ever meant to imagine—and thank the gods for that. For if man truly saw what waits in the dark, he would never sleep again. He would drown in endless night-terrors, screaming at shadows that stretch across dimensions and hunger for his extinction. We fight creatures birthed in the dead corners of the cosmos—monsters carved from void and cruelty, with frames that do not break, teeth like razors of obsidian, and minds untouched by mercy.
They have torn through fortresses meant to last forever. Strongholds that sheltered millions. And millions died—screaming in ways the human tongue has no words for.
And yet—we endure.
Because we have them.
The Warmachines.
Men no longer merely men. Forged through agony, trial, ritual, and wrath, they bled themselves into something greater. Something terrible. Something necessary.
Titans—three times the size of any natural man. Bones of alloy. Hearts built for war. Souls branded by oath and fire. They are the fist of humanity. Our vengeance given form. Our final prayer made flesh.
And when the world cracks—when hope burns out like a dying sun—it is the Warmachines who rise from the ash. Weapons in hand. Vengeance in their voices.
Bless humanity.
Bless our survival.
And bless the Warmachines.