Imperium of Man Terra Aeterna Season 01: Rise of Humanity's War Machin

Temporary Command Center, Haneda Airport – Tokyo

Reuel stood tall before a massive holographic display, arms folded behind his back. His eyes were sharp, fixed on the drone footage: a massive group of survivors running through the ruined streets of Tokyo, with a sea of zombies relentlessly chasing them down.

Once, they were a grand convoy—school buses, military trucks, even armored civilian vehicles. Now, all that remained was a desperate crowd of people running aimlessly, many limping, wounded, or clutching children in their arms.

"Latest estimates from the Imperial Guard?" Reuel asked without turning.

Major Hellsker stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Approximately 75,000 people, Your Grace. Out of the original one hundred thousand. Most are women and children. The majority of adult men... stayed behind to hold the line against the horde."

Reuel took a slow breath, but didn't answer right away. He knew sacrifices like that couldn't be measured in numbers alone. In his eyes, lives were a price paid in strength.

He nodded slightly. "Major Hellsker, there's still one Gorgon-class battleship and twenty Hercules colony ships from Terra Aeterna in Earth's orbit, correct?"

"Correct, Your Grace. They've just arrived and are maintaining a high orbit pattern."

"Order all Medivacs, Vikings, and Banshees to launch immediately. Activate full evacuation protocol. Deploy all Hercules colony ships—they are to begin transporting refugees at once."

"For combat tactics: Banshees will bombard the horde to open a path. Vikings are to provide overwatch fire support if they get too close. Terran Marines will drop directly into the evacuation zones and establish a defensive perimeter around the pickup points."

Major Hellsker saluted. "I'll relay the orders to orbital command immediately, Your Grace."

---

Earth Orbit – Gorgon-Class Battleship Dauntless Wrath

Inside the main hangar of the Dauntless Wrath, alarms blared loudly. Red lights pulsed through the vast chamber as sirens filled the air.

A senior officer—clad in gleaming Terran combat armor—stood atop the command platform, his voice echoing across the hangar:

"ALL UNITS! PREPARE FOR DEPLOYMENT!"

"This is a direct order from His Grace the Emperor—our target is a high-density civilian zone in Tokyo. Headcount: seventy-five thousand lives."

"All Medivac pilots, report to your dropships! Marines, prep for fast-drop insertion! Medics—civilian evac protocols are in full effect, no compromises!"

Engines roared to life. Viking wings unfolded, with automatic cannons mounted beneath their bodies. Banshees—painted in dark grey and shaped like reapers—switched into long-range attack mode.

"Strike formation, active. Vikings on point. Banshees for suppression. Medivacs and colony ships holding in low orbit!"

"This evac's gonna be hell, but we are NOT letting a single child die down there! MOVE OUT!"

"YES, SIR!" the troops roared in unison.

It didn't take long. twenty Medivacs, twenty-four Banshees, and twenty Vikings launched from the Dauntless Wrath, slicing through space before tearing into Earth's atmosphere at full speed.

The skies over Tokyo would soon burn with fire from above.

But this time, not to destroy—

—but to save.

---

On the Road to Tokyo

A group of women and the few remaining men leaned on each other as they ran, their bodies exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Many of them carried crying children, terrified and clinging to them. Their energy was nearly gone, yet the horde of zombies—an overwhelming tide of death—continued chasing from behind, surging in from the cities surrounding Tokyo.

They had been fleeing for more than two days without rest. Tokyo was their last hope—a supposed safe zone, said to still be holding out near Haneda Airport.

"Shit... only around 75,000 women and children left now..." one of the men muttered between gasps. "All the other men... they all sacrificed themselves. Only a hundred of us are left…"

During the escape, nearly 25,000 men—fathers, husbands, brothers—had chosen to fight unprotected, armed only with makeshift weapons. They charged into the waves of undead to buy time. Now, only a hundred of them remained.

Amid the chaotic crowd, a small twelve-year-old girl sobbed softly.

"Big sis... I... I can't go on..."

The woman beside her turned—her clothes tattered, her face dirty and streaked with dust. Though her own body was on the brink of collapse, she gripped the girl's hand tightly.

"Airi... hang in there. We have to reach Haneda. There's... a safe zone there," she whispered gently, summoning what little strength she had left to stay strong.

From behind them, a loud voice roared:

"MOVE, ALL OF YOU! THE ZOMBIES ARE GETTING CLOSER!"

A middle-aged policeman in a torn uniform scanned the panicked crowd. Then he looked firmly at the hundred remaining men. Without a word, they nodded to each other. They knew what had to be done.

The policeman walked up to the woman holding Airi's hand.

"Kiriko Miyamoto... my love..." his voice was hoarse. "You have to lead them to Haneda. Save them. Protect Airi."

"No...! We're almost there! You have to come with us too...!" Kiriko gripped his hand tightly, tears pouring down her face.

But the policeman just gave a small, weary smile—calm and resolute. "Kiriko... you have to survive. Our daughter... she might still be alive, at the Takagi estate. Tell her... I love her. And I... love you. Always."

Slowly, he let go of his wife's hand—then turned and walked toward the jaws of death, side by side with the ninety-nine other men.

Armed only with scrap weapons and unshakable resolve, they charged into the roaring flood of undead—like a tidal wave from hell. Their bodies were quickly swallowed by fog, blood, and death.

Kiriko could only stand there, trembling, silent tears streaming down her face. She watched as her husband vanished into the horde of zombies—a farewell with no final words.

---

In the Blackened Skies Over Tokyo

About thirty minutes later, a tremendous roar shook the sky. Without needing to be told, thousands of heads turned upward. The once-grey clouds had darkened, now cloaked in an aura both threatening and promising. Suddenly, like flaming meteors piercing the atmosphere, twenty-four Banshees streaked down at terrifying speed, bombarding the zombie horde from above. Explosion after explosion shattered the suffocating silence.

Then, from behind the clouds, emerged an armada unlike anything they had ever imagined.

Twenty Medivacs hovered low, ready to evacuate the survivors, while twenty Vikings flew in tight formation, providing covering fire from every direction. Behind them, twenty Hercules Colony Ships—giants in the sky—descended slowly with intimidating elegance, casting silvery-blue light that felt like divine intervention.

The Medivac doors opened. From within, soldiers in gleaming blue armor marched out in unison. Their shoulders bore shields emblazoned with the sigil of a double-headed eagle, and in their hands were heavy rifles equipped with advanced tech. Some immediately formed a defensive line, while others escorted civilians. Among them, figures in white uniforms marked with a glowing red cross—Terran Medics—moved swiftly to aid the wounded and assist the children.

The Vikings transformed into ground mode, then unleashed relentless firepower on the zombies. Plasma rounds tore through rotting flesh without mercy. One blast after another created a temporary wall between hell and hope.

A Medic strode quickly toward Kiriko Miyamoto. She removed her transparent helmet slowly, revealing a serious face with a cold yet human gaze.

"Are you the leader of this group?" she asked, calm but leaving no room for hesitation. "If so, please direct everyone to board the refugee ships in an orderly manner."

Kiriko, momentarily stunned by the overwhelming scene around her, finally snapped out of it as the Medic called out to her a second time. She nodded slowly. "Yes… I'm the leader. Who exactly are you?"

"We are Terran forces deployed under direct order of His Majesty the Emperor to evacuate all of you. Our time is limited. Please board—the ammo won't last long," the Medic answered curtly but convincingly.

The crowd's murmurs began to rise.

"Those... those are ships! They came to save us!"

"Soldiers! Look—they've got real weapons!"

"Hurry! Get on the ships before the zombies reach us!"

Amid the chaos and deafening blasts, Airi tugged on Kiriko's sleeve. Her voice was soft, but clear.

"Sis… they're really going to save us?"

Kiriko knelt down and gripped the little girl's hand tightly. "Yes, Airi. They came to help us. Now listen carefully—don't let go of my hand, okay?"

Though some were still wary of the foreign soldiers, their fear of the approaching undead was far greater. With firm but gentle guidance from the Medics, the women and children began boarding the Hercules Colony Ships one by one. Every step up those steel stairs felt like a step away from hell.

Kiriko stood among the crowd, her body covered in dust and wounds, but her eyes sharp and focused. She looked up at the open Colony Ship like a massive fortress, and for the first time in two days, she felt a flicker of hope.

At the front lines, Terran Marines, Marauders, and Firebats stood behind portable combat shields. Their heavy rifles and grenade launchers belched fire and steel.

Tak-tak-tak! Tak-tak-tak!

WUUUSH—KRAAANG!

FWOOMMM!

The sound was deafening—but that sound was what kept them alive.

"Sir, we're running low on ammo!" one Marine shouted as he reloaded behind the wreck of a burned-out car.

The squad commander barked orders. "You two! Grab ammo crates from the Medivacs and get them to the front! Don't let them break the line!"

Heavy boots pounded the asphalt as two soldiers sprinted through the smoke and blood-red mist. Above them, the Vikings roared once more—transforming mid-air and firing precision plasma blasts into the densest parts of the horde.

DZZZAP! DZZZAP! DZZZAP!

The undead were torn apart, their bodies erupting into gore and rotting flesh. But for every one that fell, two more surged forward to take its place.

Each minute felt like an hour. Breaths were shallow, sweat poured, and ammunition dwindled fast.

Finally, after nearly two hours of brutal combat, a Medic ran up to the Marine commander.

"Sir, all civilians are on board. We're ready to pull out."

The commander nodded without hesitation. "All units! Fall back to the Medivacs! Bring all gear—we're lifting off!"

One by one, the Terran troops retreated in formation, covering each other with suppressive fire. Corpses of zombies littered the battlefield, drenched in blood, flesh, and the stench of death. The final Medivac lifted off, carrying the last of the soldiers.

The Hercules Colony Ships slowly ascended, leaving behind the ruined road to Tokyo—now silent, burning, and devastated—but holding a fragile spark of new hope.

---

In the Northern Defense Sector of Tokyo

The full might of the Astra Militarum had been deployed.

Chris Redfield, field commander of the Tokyo Reactive Division, strode firmly along the main trench, barking orders. Under his command, thousands of Imperial Guardsmen prepared to hold the line against an undead horde estimated at ten million cursed souls. The soldiers worked tirelessly to erect Aegis Defence Lines and position automated Tarantula Turrets around the perimeter. The trenches themselves had been dug in record time, modeled after the classic trench warfare of the Great War of Terra—what the Archivists called World War One.

Chimera transports roared back and forth without pause, delivering battalions from both the standard ranks of the Astra Militarum and the bio-engineered combat clone units produced by the Red Queen—a semi-organic AI entity now operating in tandem with the Legion's Alice.

Behind the trenches, squadrons of Leman Russ Battle Tanks rumbled low, their engines shaking the earth—ready to unleash devastation at a moment's notice. On the front lines, Hellhound units and Terran Firebats—products of technological collaboration with the Dominion—filled the gaps in the formation, prepared to incinerate the undead tide with searing flames and high-temperature plasma.

The defense camp was a flurry of movement, yet a heavy air of grim determination hung over everything. Guardsmen ran with ammo crates, reinforced barricades, and fine-tuned vox communication lines between posts. In the gray, merciless sky above, the thunderous roar of heavy engines echoed as field artillery—Basilisks, Manticores, and Wyverns—rolled into position. In the vital rear sector, Terran Siege Tanks stood side by side with Earthshaker Emplacements, forming an almost impenetrable wall of artillery fire.

Dozens of Sentinel Scout Walkers were dispatched toward the eastern districts—areas with the highest concentration of undead. Their mission was clear: lure the horde into the main kill zone—a deadly trap meticulously designed by Tacticae of the Schola Progenium.

On the rooftops and concrete ruins of the flattened city, Terran Marines and Marauders had already taken up strategic positions. Lightly armored Medics watched over them, ready to provide emergency aid or inject stimpacks into their near-fallen comrades.

All of Tokyo had become a fortress of steel and blood. Beneath a sky that offered no forgiveness, the Astra Militarum, the Red Queen, and the Dominion Terran allies stood united at the edge of hell. Ten million zombies surged as one apocalyptic wave—but the defenders of mankind stood by one sacred oath:

"They shall not pass."

Heavy footsteps echoed along the trenches as Luther West, Leon S. Kennedy, and Carlos Oliveira approached Chris Redfield, who stood resolute atop the command platform, his gaze fixed north—toward the oncoming annihilation.

"Chris," Luther greeted him, still breathless after the long trek. "You got pulled into this sector too?"

Chris nodded slowly, his shoulders burdened not only by his combat armor but by the weight of command. "I'm the field commander now. This city... it has to hold."

Leon looked up at the grim, gray sky, then lowered his gaze to the battlefield—calm before the storm. "Who would've thought we'd cross universes... just to run into zombies again. This world is completely insane."

Carlos grinned, his tone teasing. "But rumor has it your sister's with that Reuel guy now, yeah? You not pissed?"

Chris turned sharply. His gaze was sharp, voice raspy and heavy. "Shut up, Carlos. Of course I'm pissed. Reuel's a first-class playboy. Surrounded by women from every faction. But... my sister loves him. I can't stop her."

Carlos raised both hands, smile still intact. "Alright, alright. At least she's happy now."

Before the conversation could continue, the ground beneath them began to shake. The tremors quickly turned into the thunder of marching—thousands, maybe millions—pounding the earth like the drums of a giant war.

In the distance, the silhouettes of Sentinel Scout Walkers emerged, falling back in strategic formation. Behind them, the undead surged across the landscape. Countless. A tide of the walking dead consuming the ground beneath them.

Chris immediately lifted his vox-caster. His voice was calm, yet firm and absolute:

"All unit leaders, stand by. Wait until the Sentinels are back behind the defense line. Then—free fire."

The sky hung heavy, as if holding its breath. Thin smoke rose from war machines kicking into life. Guardsmen checked their weapons one last time. Tarantula Turrets lit up and began to spin. Leman Russ engines roared.

And as the last Sentinel vaulted over the Aegis Line—

"ALL UNITS, OPEN FIRE!"

---

The battlefield ignited in a blaze of fire.

"ZRAK-ZRAK-ZRAK!" — Lasguns screamed, striking like lightning from hell.

"DUGDUGDUGDUG!" — Autocannons roared, vomiting projectile storms that tore rotting bodies to shreds.

"BOOM! BOOM!" — Leman Russ tanks unleashed explosive shells, carving craters of blood and charred meat.

"KRAAA-KOOM!" — Basilisks hurled long-range detonations, obliterating zombie ranks before they even got close.

"WHOOOSH—SKREE—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!" — Manticore missiles weaved through the air before slamming into the ground, spreading wide-scale destruction.

"THUMP-THUMP-THUMP... KRUMP-KRUMP-KRUMP!" — Wyverns launched fragmentation rounds, sweeping entire sectors in lethal arcs.

Two hundred thousand Imperial Guardsmen exhaled death in a single breath.

The front lines of the undead were instantly wiped out—burned, blasted, shredded into minced flesh and ash. But the next wave came like a storm. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Relentless. Uncaring. Unfeeling.

In the central sector, Hellhound units surged forward, unleashing purifying flame, pushing back the pressure of the second wave. Beside them, Terran Firebats incinerated the path ahead with red-hot plasma weapons.

In the eastern sector, Terran Marines and Marauders manned key positions, their bodies like killing machines—disciplined and brutal.

Chris watched it all from the command post, vox-caster still in hand. His face was tense, his eyes sharp.

"Keep firing," he muttered. "Don't let them through. Not one of them."

---

The battle raged on.

Zombies began piling up like crawling walls of flesh. Some reached the Aegis Line, lashing out with teeth and claws. But the front was held at all costs. Lasguns kept flashing. Autocannons barked from high towers. Hellhound and Firebat fire turned the air into a hellish furnace.

But the wave... never stopped.

They were easy to kill—but their numbers were beyond reason. They knew no fatigue. No fear. No pain. No retreat.

And for Chris Redfield, one truth became crystal clear:

This... was only the first wave.