The night passed in restless unease. Reuel struggled to sleep—his mind was too full. He spent the night moving from one room to another—Yuriko, Rika, Shizuka, Kiriko, Saeko, and several other women. All of them only finally fell asleep just before dawn, after a long and exhausting night.
By the time Reuel opened his eyes, the day had already turned to afternoon. Soft orange light slipped through the curtains, casting warm shadows on the floor. Around him, the women still slept soundly—their faces calm, their bodies resting from fatigue. Reuel had no intention of waking anyone.
He descended from the upper floor to the kitchen, grabbed some light snacks, then stepped into his office inside the Imperial Palace. The room was silent, the only sound being the hiss of the automatic door sliding shut behind him. Without delay, Reuel activated the internal communications system.
"System, activate the troop module."
The system's flat, emotionless voice responded a few seconds later:
"Ding! Troop module activated. Congratulations, Host, you have received 20 Behemoth-class battlecruisers under the command of Mira Han."
Reuel froze.
"...Twenty Behemoth-class battlecruisers? That's insane. But… who the hell is Mira Han? That name… sounds really familiar…"

He narrowed his eyes, digging through the mental archives of his previous life. Then, in a sudden flash of realization, his expression changed drastically. His lips twitched, as if trying to hold back a curse.
"Oh, goddamn it… Mira Han?!"
In his past life, that name had been infamous across StarCraft forums and communities. A woman known for being unhinged, flamboyant, and drama-prone—and worse still, a poker bet wife. Yes, Mira Han, the lunatic who was literally won in a gambling match by Matt Horner, without him even realizing the "prize" was... a wife.
Now she was known as Mira Horner, and had a trademark habit of calling her husband in the most unsettling way imaginable:
"Maaatthewww~"
Mira was the leader of Mira's Marauders, a mercenary group operating in the Koprulu Sector. She had a history with Jim Raynor and had taken part in the Second Great War against the Zerg in the year 2504. This woman was obsessed with minerals, reputation, and chaos. Her leadership style was reckless and terrifying—but somehow charismatic, eccentric, and dangerously competent—especially when it came to her beloved "Matthew."
Her combat strategies ranged from brilliant to batshit absurd, depending entirely on her mood. She manipulated situations through dramatic flair and honeyed threats, like a space-mafia wife who'd binge-watched too many soap operas.
Reuel rubbed his face, letting out a long groan.
"Hey, system! You are messing with me on purpose, aren't you?! Just admit it already!"
The system responded in the same calm, infuriatingly neutral tone.
"Host, I am merely a system. While all units have 100% loyalty toward you, uniting them is your responsibility."
"Host is the Emperor of Mankind, although only 50% of your original power has been awakened. These individuals are real, not fictional characters. They possess free will, emotions, love, and even hatred toward one another. Bringing them together… is part of your duty."
Reuel stared up at the ceiling in utter frustration.
"Goddamn you, system… fuck you. Bastard."
He muttered curses under his breath for nearly an hour—aimed at the system, which never once responded with emotion. Just silence. Always silence.
And amid that despair, Reuel whispered to himself:
"Why the hell am I the one stuck with all this…? Every transmigrated protagonist in fanfics I've read has it easy. But me? Every damn day I'm a referee, diplomat, and firefighter for factions that are this close to blowing each other up—on land, in orbit, and in deep space…"
Reuel let out a long sigh. Even after cursing at the system for nearly an hour, his anger hadn't truly subsided. But what frustrated him the most was the sense—no, the certainty—that this system was deliberately trying to make his life hell.
And who could blame him?
First, the system had thrown in the fanatical forces of the Warhammer universe into his empire: the Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, who revered machines as holier than life itself; the Sisters of Battle, whose flames of faith could incinerate heretics from a kilometer away; the Inquisition, always ready to declare someone a heretic and then... purge and cleanse.
Did this system really not understand how impossible it was to make these zealots coexist with entities like the shipgirls from Azur Lane? Cute, sweet, cheerful girls... who were technically personifications of warships. To the fanatics of the Imperium, they were neither human nor sacred machines. They were anomalies—abominations to be cleansed in the Emperor's holy fire.
Every day, conflicts erupted. Sometimes over ridiculous things—like a lunch protocol deemed incompatible with the Litany of the Omnissiah—other times over serious disputes, like who had the right to control the planet's low orbit, which nearly ended with orbital cannons locking onto each other.
And as if all that chaos wasn't enough, the system had dropped yet another surprise. This time, it sent in Admiral Gerard DuGalle—commander of the United Earth Directorate's expeditionary fleet from the StarCraft universe.
Reuel massaged his temples, feeling a headache forming.
The UED... a technocratic and militaristic regime formed from the remnants of Earth's old governments. In practice, they were a blend of cold-blooded technocracy and rigid military hierarchy—a Soviet Union in space. Meanwhile, the Imperium of Man was a theocratic empire, a galactic-scale fascist state powered by faith, dogma, and terror.
Sure, they were both xenophobic. But their motives and philosophies? Polar opposites.
"System, you really do want blood to spill in my palace corridors, don't you?"
The UED viewed aliens as threats to be subdued or destroyed, much like the Imperium. But where the Imperium rejected xenos based on divine command and biological dogma, the UED rejected them for reasons of stability, control, and systemic efficiency. If an alien could be domesticated and weaponized? To the UED, that was a "strategic military asset."
And this mess was made even more absurd by the presence of creatures like Manjuu and Bulin—those absurd mascots from Azur Lane. To both the UED and the Imperium, their existence could mean only one thing: Xenos. They may look vaguely humanoid, but their origins? Completely unacceptable.
"Humans are humans. Ships are ships. Aliens are aliens."
That was their mantra. And the three must never mix.
But Reuel knew better. The StarCraft universe wasn't as simplistic as the games made it seem. In the fan communities he followed in his past life, plenty of theories had emerged—suggesting that the Zerg and Protoss were only the tip of the iceberg. That there were countless other alien species in the galaxy, hidden behind lore and classified files.
Logically, it didn't make sense for just two alien races to push humanity into becoming so paranoid and extreme. A galaxy full of star systems and planets had to contain far more life.
"They're hiding something... or maybe it's history that's been lost."
Just look at how the Dominion or the UED spoke about aliens—it wasn't just cautious language. It was full-on declarations of human supremacy.
Even Arcturus Mengsk, dictator of the Dominion, had declared loud and clear:
"The future of humanity cannot be shared with alien beings."
Lines like that—repeated in speeches, propaganda, and official doctrine—didn't sound like reactions to just two alien species. That kind of ideology only came from generations of war, fear, and buried truths.
Still, the distinction remained clear:
Warhammer viewed human supremacy as divine command.
Other races were the product of corruption—an insult to the Emperor.
StarCraft, on the other hand, was pragmatic.
If an alien could be controlled and used to strengthen humanity? That was fine. But if they resisted? Eliminate them.
In simple terms: the Dominion was Space America, and the UED was the Interstellar Soviet Union.
Both cared only about power, influence, and their own definition of "humanity's future."
And now, Reuel had to act as mediator between these hard-headed factions—while keeping the shipgirls from getting torched by the Sisters of Battle, dissected alive by the Inquisition, or abducted for research by UED scientists.
"System... you cunning bastard."
And now, that damned system had added yet another name to the ever-growing list of people who made Reuel's life feel like a galactic version of hell: Mira Han, the leader of Mira's Marauders.
Officially, she was called a space mercenary—but anyone with half a brain knew Mira Han was basically a licensed galactic pirate. She had her own little kingdom in the fringe sectors, complete with mining colonies, orbital bases, and a personal fleet. Technically legal, sure. But in practice? She was a spacefaring warlord with lipstick and a psychopath's smile.
"Of course the system picked someone like her... of course," Reuel muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling of his office, silently praying to be permanently summoned by the Emperor.
The civilization he was trying to build—his version of the Imperium of Man—was beginning to feel more and more like a peace conference held in the middle of an active war zone. Every faction was a walking time bomb, just waiting for the slightest reason to declare exterminatus on each other.
Warhammer: full of zealots, stubborn to the core, with plasma fire as the only acceptable solution.
UED: obsessed with systemic supremacy, centralized control, sterile bureaucracy, and a chronic paranoia of anything not born on Earth.
And now: a rogue mercenary army whose morals were about as stable as stock prices—fluctuating with the weather and the highest bidder.
"And just wait 'til the Dominion shows up. Political manipulation? Propaganda? Populism? Betrayal? Hell, why not just call Kerrigan and let her nuke everything while we're at it."
Reuel downed his black coffee in a single gulp—not because he wanted to, but because his frustration had already punched a hole through the skies of Terra Aeterna.
He sighed, then asked the system with a voice heavy with exhaustion:
"Hey system, at the very least, tell me... when is Mira Han arriving on Terra Aeterna?"
Ding! Host, Mira Han will arrive in two hours via a Webway space-time portal. Please prepare accordingly.
"Two... hours?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" Reuel jumped from his seat, slamming his coffee mug to the floor—only for it to be instantly repaired by a waiting servo-skull.
The system continued calmly, as if it hadn't just dropped a live grenade into his lap:
"Suggestion: host should immediately inform relevant parties that twenty Behemoth-class Battlecruisers will be entering Terra Aeterna's orbit in two hours. Otherwise, due to Mira Han's temperament, there is a high probability she will interpret the planetary defense systems as 'training targets.' And begin... pillaging."
"You bastard, system! Why the hell didn't you tell me earlier?!"
Reuel didn't wait. He immediately activated the primary comms system, opening a priority-one channel directly to Ursarkar E. Creed, the Military Governor of Terra Aeterna, and Admiral Gerard DuGalle, commander of the UED fleet currently stationed in outer orbit.
Two holographic screens lit up in front of Reuel, displaying the faces of two of the most hardened military figures from entirely different universes—Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed of the Astra Militarum, and Admiral Gerard DuGalle of the United Earth Directorate.
Creed gave a short bow, full of respect.
"Your orders, Lord Emperor?"
Reuel interlaced his fingers in front of his face. His tone was calm, yet sharp as a monomolecular blade.
"Creed, DuGalle. In two hours, twenty Behemoth-class battlecruisers will enter our sector. Their design is similar to the fleet under DuGalle's command."
He drew a short breath before continuing.
"Direct them to Lion Gate Station. Order the station crew to prepare for logistical resupply and grant shore leave to their personnel. The commander of that fleet... is a woman named Mira Han."
"Orders received, Lord Emperor," Creed replied without hesitation.
However, Reuel caught the flicker of doubt crossing DuGalle's face. He didn't miss such details.
"Admiral DuGalle, is there something you'd like to ask?"
DuGalle took a slow breath, as if trying to suppress something unpleasant dancing at the edge of his tongue.
"Forgive me, Lord Emperor. Did you just say the fleet's commander is Mira Han?"
"Yes, that's correct. Do you know her?"
"Not personally…" DuGalle replied, turning his face slightly, his expression growing cold. "But that name is well known among UED officers."
He hissed under his breath.
"Space rat. Leader of Mira's Marauders. Mercenary, pirate, opportunist—take your pick. They have no loyalty to anything but profit."
Creed growled low, his tone filled with the characteristic contempt of a Cadia-born soldier.
"With all due respect, Lord Emperor... filth like that should not be given any place in the Imperium. They are not allies. They are a cancer. Permit me to excise them before they spread."
DuGalle glanced toward Creed, his tone biting.
"For once, I agree with the bastard from Cadia."
Creed snapped his head toward him, his eyes flaring like plasma.
"What did you just say, old bastard?"
"You heard me," DuGalle replied without flinching.
The air in Reuel's office suddenly grew tense. Two titanic egos from different galaxies collided like dreadnoughts locked in a power struggle.
But before the tension could ignite into open flames, Reuel's voice cut through the air—cold and sharp as a Martian warhammer:
"Silence."
Instantly, the room was engulfed in quiet. Only the soft hum of machinery and the faint whirring of control panels remained.
Reuel rose slowly, his form straight and unmoving like a monolith. His gaze shifted from one screen to the other.
"You are under one banner. One Imperium. And if you cannot set aside your personal egos for the stability of this civilization, then I will replace both of you before your argument finishes."
"Am I clear?"
DuGalle and Creed both straightened up. Their voices returned to their disciplined, militaristic tone—firm, obedient, and without fault:
"Understood, Lord Emperor."
Reuel gave a nod.
"Good. Mira Han will be joining us under the structure of the Imperium of Man. I do not want to hear a single word of protest from either of you. We are short on fleet commanders for our resource expeditions to strategic outer-sector planets."
"I trust that is understood."
"Understood, Lord Emperor," they answered in unison, though their eyes still locked with tension across the flickering holographic feed.
Once the comms cut off and the screens dimmed, Reuel let out a long sigh. He leaned back into his high-backed obsidian chair.
His head felt heavy.
How could the Imperium he hoped to build—a beacon of hope for mankind—now feel more like a minefield of politics, fanaticism, and inter-universal self-interest?