Korhal IV, Augustgrad.
Whoosh—Boom! Rumble—
Explosions came one after another, like sledgehammers pounding the earth. Once resplendent, the flower-filled city of high towers, glittering like heaven itself, collapsed one after another.
Debris littered the ground. Shattered glass was blown away by fierce shockwaves, gales sweeping across the streets. Under the light of the fireballs, the earth shone like crystal.
Reflections showed a city in flames, a world pushed to its limits.
Traffic was paralyzed. Abandoned civilian vehicles clogged the streets, mingled with burning, twisted wrecks of military craft—Banshee ground-attack craft, Liberator gunships, Viking fighters—scattered everywhere.
Corpses sprawled across the streets. Among them were severed limbs wrapped in red CMC-300 power armor. Judging from the scene, they were marines thrown out of their transports when they were hit and brought down.
A sign barely hung at the edge of the ruins. Its charred surface still bore the words in bold letters: "Welcome to Augustgrad National Grand Theater." At its base, a burning hole had been blasted through the wall where the building once connected.
Wreckage from a disintegrating aircraft had struck here. The twisted, burning black metal was unrecognizable, but its pilot was clearly unlucky. His lower half was still stuck in the jagged cockpit frame, torn apart, entrails and strips of flesh connecting what remained of his upper body buried in rubble.
Farther beyond, the once-gilded Augustgrad National Grand Theater lay in ruins.
In the distance, the precious "king's land" blocks—buildings like the Mensk II Sky Tower, Procyon Industrial Building, American Building, Rass Company's headquarters, even the UNN Korhal News Network headquarters—none had been spared.
Lavish buildings erected by the rich and powerful to flaunt their identity and authority, poured with countless labor and resources, now shared the same fate as the lowly refugee shelters.
If anything, their destruction was even more tragic.
Once, after installing energy field generators, company executives praised themselves to the skies, boasting endlessly of their unbreakable defenses.
But when war truly came, all crumbled with a single strike from heaven's spears. Rich or poor, noble or beggar—all were equal before annihilation.
If the war ever ended, and the new government did not lock this zone down, treasure hunters would surely swarm here.
"Quickly, move faster! Don't be afraid! There's no value in bombing this place anymore."
"Our mission target: search along Theater Avenue for surviving marines."
Amid hurried, chaotic footsteps, a squad emerged from the once-grand theater halls into the devastated street. After barely ten steps, turning a corner, they found seven or eight marines scattered lifelessly near the wreckage of a Banshee craft.
Each was covered in blood, their armor shredded, some even without helmets.
"Damn it, by Emperor Arcturus I—it's our men again."
Rescue personnel, marked with white armbands bearing red crosses, exchanged hand signals with their escorting marines, then hurried over. One knelt at the first fallen figure.
"Designation… Korhal Dominion Marine Corps, 21st Regiment, Private First Class Spike Moore. Went missing during reinforcement mission at Augustgrad Palace Sector 3B-5 Anti-Air Tower…"
As he spoke, the rescuer's specialized medic helmet scanned the armor serial number, cross-checking with the marine's facial features and blood type. He removed the cracked CMC-300 helmet. A young face stared blankly upward, eyes frozen wide open.
"Palace Sector 3B-5 Anti-Air Tower… my younger brother is stationed there! Damn these invaders!"
Grief heavy on his face, the rescuer gently turned the body over, closing the dead marine's eyes.
Then, a shout: "This one's still alive! Broken ribs, suspected pneumothorax. The power armor's life-support sealed the bleeding, but he needs a transfusion…"
"Fuck you!"
The marine on watch cursed bitterly.
"They're all our people! Not a single bastard from the double-headed eagle? Even when Korhal fell last time, we didn't go down this helplessly! Damn it, this war is a mess!"
Suddenly, a deafening roar rolled across the sky. The burning wrecks of Korhal's orbital defense fleet plunged into the atmosphere, fiery meteors ripping through the clouds. The ground quaked once more under the impact.
"Rescuing wounded at this point is just a drop in the bucket. Better to fall back into the fortress bunkers and hold out until reinforcements from other sector fleets arrive… Heh. But honestly… this time, I think we're done for."
Ten kilometers away, near the Grand Pyramid Palace Square of Augustgrad, atop a permanent anti-air tower, a Ghost clad in full stealth armor raised his C-10 canister rifle. Through the scope, he watched rescue teams combing the ruins below for marines and civilians. His voice was faint, almost detached.
Korhal's Defense Command had ordered such missions partly to maintain morale—saving survivors was essential for resistance—but also because they had no choice.
The defeat of the defense fleet was certain. The orbital blockade was inevitable.
At such a time, what they lacked most was trained soldiers. Every survivor saved mattered. Even if crippled, citizens in shelters could be retrained. Thanks to Arcturus Mengsk's preparations, Korhal's underground stores were stocked with supplies. For a prolonged war, they had no worries there.
"So pessimistic?" From the eastern watchpoint, another Ghost shimmered into view, canceling his optical camouflage.
"This time, we're probably finished."
"Hey, hey, if you're that scared of dying, how'd you even graduate Ghost Academy?"
Ghosts—
Elite assassins wielding psionics. Special operatives.
The old Confederacy had gathered children with innate psionic potential, isolating and training them. These programs shaped their abilities, boosting strength and endurance.
Outfitted with psionic-powered stealth armor, Ghosts were invisible to the naked eye unless revealed by detection equipment. Their signature C-10 canister rifles were infamous throughout the sector.
More often than not, Ghosts served as the government's executioners, silencing dissent and crushing opposition.
It was Ghosts, dispatched by the Terran Confederacy, who ignited the Korhal Rebellion—assassinating Senator Angus Mengsk and exterminating the Mengsk family, sparking the flames of war.
Even Sarah Kerrigan, before the Zerg captured and remade her, had been a Ghost of the Confederacy. Exceptional, unmatched, a weapon without peer.
It was Kerrigan who assassinated Angus Mengsk, and who played a direct role in the Mengsk family massacre. Though she had been nothing more than a tool back then, without will of her own, the blood feud remained—fueling the enmity between Kerrigan and Arcturus forever.
When the Confederacy fell and the Dominion rose, Arcturus did not abolish the Ghosts out of hatred. Instead, the slayer of dragons became a dragon himself. He expanded the Ghost program even further, honing them into his deadliest blade.
After all, he himself had risen through rebellion—he knew the value of such weapons.
"What are you two thinking? 'Finished'? When the Korhal government collapses and the Mengsk dynasty falls, finished? Finished for whom? We'll be branded war criminals. Execution at best, our families punished at worst."
Silent footsteps approached.
A blonde woman rested her customized C-10 rifle on her shoulder, clad in full psionic stealth armor—though she wore no helmet. Her golden hair, usually smooth and straight, had been curled, tied back elegantly in a single ponytail.
[Nova Terra]
Light makeup was enough to bring out her deep green eyes. Her smooth skin needed no embellishment, and her rare beauty and striking figure—paired with her Ghost operative identity—made her famous across the Terran Dominion's military.
Nova Terra.
The Dominion's most outstanding Ghost commander. In her Ghost Academy graduation trials, her scores had been no weaker than those of Sarah Kerrigan herself.
"Oh, boss. So, you captured the infamous enemy-of-the-people, Jim Raynor. Didn't our glorious Emperor reward you with a grand medal?"
Contrary to the cold, merciless image outsiders imagined of executioners and operatives, the Ghost Corps' internal atmosphere was not so different from the brotherhood among the marines.
"Maybe later, if the Mengsk dynasty survives long enough. As for Jim Raynor… if he hasn't been executed outright as scum, then he's probably in the hands of these invaders by now."
Nova glanced toward the orbital spaceport. As a senior Ghost commander, she knew Raynor's fate well enough—transferred from orbital prison to a prison ship, drifting endlessly through the stars.
After all, she had been the one to capture him.
In the raid on the Umojan research base, Nova had dueled Jim Raynor, knocking him unconscious and taking him prisoner.
"Why make it so complicated?"
Nova stood, gazing upward through the rippling blue energy fields, pointing toward the massive steel leviathans prowling arrogantly in the upper atmosphere—warships whose design was utterly unlike the Terran navy's.
"Too bad. I caught Jim Raynor, but not his mistress, Sarah Kerrigan—the greatest Ghost trainee in Academy history. I'd like to ask her myself: back in those days, was she stronger, or was I?"
She wasn't foolish enough to compare psionics against the present Kerrigan. She only wanted to know: as mere humans, who had been superior?
With no shame, Nova laid aside her rifle, plopped down on an ammo crate in the recessed watchpost, and explained with little enthusiasm: "If I'm not mistaken, these invaders aim to occupy Korhal IV long-term—perhaps the entire Koprulu sector. Strange that they've spared this city from bombardment."
"Rooting out each stronghold one by one—though not as grand as a full assault, it's more solid. This time, it won't be as easy as chasing out the UED fleet."
She gestured, summoning her squad. Leaning forward, she tapped a control key on the field terminal beside her.
At once, over a dozen Ghosts uncloaked, locking doors, jamming surveillance systems, gathering around her.
Beep-beep!
Nova swiped her ID card. Her slender fingers typed rapidly across the panel, reading aloud as she scanned the reports.
"Battle reports are being concealed. The situation is dire. Korhal has been sealed off, an isolated island. Usar and Canis fell within three hours of orbital drops."
"Of the eight major cities on Korhal IV, five have already fallen, leaving only Augustgrad and one more still resisting…"
As she spoke, the secret Dominion military network flashed red alerts across the screen.
Another city had fallen. Casualty and equipment losses were catastrophic, with barely any mobile forces escaping.
"Six now… meaning only Augustgrad and one other city remain."
"Out of 5,592 residential districts, over three thousand are gone. All 1,012 industrial districts captured."
She sighed. Her deep green eyes dimmed. At this pace, anyone with wits—any soldier or citizen not blinded by censorship—could see the truth. The Dominion stood at the cliff's edge. Collapse was imminent.
"We are fish in a barrel," Nova muttered, swiping to the next feed.
Bzzz—
The screen shook with explosions. Through choking smoke and shrieking artillery, beams of laser fire streaked overhead. Fireballs lit the scorched steel, sunlight mixing with flames. The earth itself quaked like a pounding heart, jarring the fixed surveillance feed.
Rumble, rumble, rumble!
Amid the blazing explosions flashing across the sky, the fortress energy fields overloaded. Heavy weapons emplacements beneath thick armor were torn apart one by one.
A massive Imperial Titan loomed against the sun, its colossal siege drill shrouded in destructive fields. With unstoppable momentum, it smashed through the thick ferrosteel walls of the Terran fortress.
Crack—crash—!
The thunderous echoes cut like the scythe of death, rattling minds and hammering hearts. Its overwhelming might soared into the heavens, visible from tens of kilometers away—indescribably fearsome.
In an instant, that weapon, as thick as a skyscraper, drove into the fortress. A gigantic turbine laser cannon slowly flared to life. Behind the walls, everything reflected crimson light. A moment of silence—and then:
Vrrrrrr—!!
A terrifying shriek ripped through the sky. In the recording, all prior explosions abruptly vanished—audio systems overloaded, leaving only static hissing.
Even through the screen, crimson light traced Nova's features, bathing her squad. The purplish-red glare illuminated their stealth armor as though cloaked in fire.
The barrage shook not only the monitors, but their hearts.
When the light faded, cracks splintered across the feed. On the fortress's northern side, chaos reigned as Dominion soldiers fled in disarray.
In the next instant, a hastily formed defensive line opened fire—only to be obliterated by a blazing beam. In moments, marines in power armor were reduced to molten slag. A few thrown clear screamed in agony, writhing beside the molten pools.
Soon, the enemy army marched into the view of the monitors. They wore sealed longcoats over exoskeletal armor styled like ancient plate. Their tall boots crunched across still-glowing metal. Their long rifles, antique in form, bore bayonets at the tip.
The Terran Dominion was being defeated… by this?
Nova's instinctive doubt died quickly. Traditional leather boots could never withstand molten iron.
Then she saw a bayonet thrust straight through a marine's CMC-300 armor—slicing it as though it were butter—cleaving flesh and tearing heads free.
Enhanced bayonets?
And those long rifles did not fire bullets—they fired beams of searing light!
Bullets from the C-14 rifles struck their foes with no effect, deflected by ornate armor. Some even raised wrist-shields, projecting personal energy barriers to absorb volleys from Marauder K12 grenade launchers—before closing in for beheadings.
Though enemy soldiers fell, comrades swiftly dragged them back, injected them with unknown stimulants, and sent them charging again. Medics, marked red and white, followed to stabilize them properly.
As the battle ground on, officers in broad-brimmed caps and soldiers clad in even more advanced power armor joined the fray. In mere breaths, defensive lines of marines, reapers, marauders, with a few Thors and Vikings, were shattered.
A low hum rolled out. From within the swarm, a towering warrior in purple-gold heavy armor raised a crackling power blade. Lightning arced across it as he swung.
Armor and flesh alike froze mid-motion under the blade's light, then split apart before horrified comrades—bodies collapsing in two halves.
He flicked the blood away and sheathed the blade, issuing calm orders to soldiers at his side.
Two sharp bursts of psionic discharge followed. Marines running just ahead crumpled, their CMC-300 armor folding like paper. Upper bodies slid forward, inertia leaving long streaks of blood across the steel ground.
A towering warrior in purple-gold armor, wielding a massive-caliber sidearm, stared directly into the cameras. For a moment, it was as though his eyes met theirs through the monitors. Then he raised his hand—click—
The screens went dark.
"..."
In the silence, one Ghost muttered: "Against this kind of irrational, overwhelming bombardment and tank-like advance, even if they threw us to the front lines, what difference would we make? We'd be no different from the marines."
Another rubbed his temple. "So what do we do?"
"What else? Fight! At worst, we die and that's it."
"But… that's just meaningless suicide."
"What, you want to surrender?"
"And why not? We've done more than enough for the Mengsk dynasty."
...
Do not think the Ghost Corps held undying loyalty to Arcturus's Dominion. Many had been trained in the Ghost Academy under the old Confederacy, indoctrinated in loyalty to the noble houses of Tarsonis. When Tarsonis was destroyed by the Zerg and the Dominion took over, their allegiance was redirected—toward the Mengsk family, toward Arcturus himself.
In that sense, the Dominion was but the Confederacy's successor, the strongest human power in the sector. Arcturus had given the Ghost Academy tangible benefits. What other choice did they have? Swear to the Zerg? To the Protoss? Or to the rebel groups that Ghost operatives themselves had long persecuted?
There had never been much choice at all.
"How do we fight, then? Boss, your call."
Amid the argument, all eyes turned to Nova.
She understood at once. If surrender was off the table, then they could not fight head-on. Waiting inside Augustgrad's Grand Pyramid Palace was useless. Better to split into cells, disappear into the ruins, and wage urban warfare—maximize their true value.
And now, there was an opening. The invaders' fleet seemed intent on preserving Korhal, not razing it. Augustgrad's palace had barely been targeted. Most damage came from wreckage of their own fallen battlecruisers, not orbital strikes.
This was opportunity. If the enemy had only wanted to annihilate the Dominion, total orbital bombardment would have left no one alive.
The Korhal Assembly's defiance in refusing surrender…
Part of it came from Korhal being Arcturus's home base, where local loyalty ran deep, and from his preferential policies toward Korhal natives.
But much of it stemmed from memory of the UED's brutal occupation. The Directorate had centralized all power, reclaimed land and resources under Earth's control, and bled Korhal dry. Those decrees had grievously harmed the locals.
Now came the Sacred Selene Empire—still more domineering.
All authority to Selene!
"How to fight? I don't know either. Leave it to fate… The Assembly may act tough, but they're more anxious than we are. Emperor Arcturus has locked himself in his palace, delegating duties and forbidding anyone from entry. Does he really think he can turn this around?"
Nova looked up, toward the peak of the Grand Pyramid Palace—where Arcturus remained.
At that very moment, as Nova weighed her choice to defy orders—
Beep-beep—
"All citizens of the Terran Dominion, this is Valerian Mengsk…"
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