The Bizarre Adventure of the Warhammer Guard

The High Lords' Council Hall, a solemn place where the Empire discussed its fate, was now filled with an absurd and humiliating atmosphere.

At one end of the hall, a makeshift "messenger platform" was constructed from roughly pieced-together metal panels, upon which sat a figure.

It was an unusually tall orc, dressed in a "formal suit" haphazardly made from tattered imperial flags, rusty armor plates, and the bones of unknown creatures, and wearing a crooked tall hat inlaid with the badge of an imperial naval officer.

His prosthetic eye glowed red, his thick arm was casually draped over the armrest of the chair, and in his right hand he held a huge pipe that he had somehow stolen.

He grinned, revealing a menacing smile that could be described as "kind," as he sized up the weak human opposite him.

This was the orcish messenger, who called himself "Ambassador." Behind him stood two even more burly orc warriors, armed to the teeth, who made no attempt to conceal their greedy and brutal gazes as they scanned every human in the council hall.

At the other end of the hall, the high lords of the human empire sat in rows, their former majesty gone, replaced by tension and fear.

The bureaucrats, led by the Minister of the Interior, were ashen-faced, their eyes darting around, constantly wiping the cold sweat from their foreheads.

The data panel in front of them displayed the direct losses caused by the Battle Moon across Terra, the panic that erupted due to the disastrous defeat in the "Holy War," and the estimated time for reinforcements from various star systems to reach Terra.

Dressed in a magnificent robe and wearing a tall hat studded with jewels, the Pope of the state religion was pale. He closed his eyes tightly, clasped his hands together, and kept repeating incoherently, "The Emperor's test" and "May the Emperor bless you."

The Assassin's Court representatives were ashen-faced, their fists clenched. They were temporarily suppressed by the defeated rhetoric of the other high lords and had not yet fully erupted.

"Thump!"

Da tapped the long metal table in front of everyone with his pipe, and the crisp sound immediately attracted everyone's attention.

"Since you little shrimps are pretty tough, I'll give you a chance." The ambassador spoke directly, in fluent Imperial High Gothic. "This damn planet is ours from now on. You, all of you, get out of here and find somewhere else to squeeze in."

The ambassador took a puff of his empty pipe and exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. He squinted his crimson mechanical eyes, admiring the human faces contorted with fear and humiliation.

"Get out of here?" The voice of Grand Master Vangorich of the Assassin's Court trembled with extreme anger.

"Terra is the eternal throne of the Holy Emperor, the cornerstone and heart of the human empire." He abruptly stood up from his seat. "No Xenomorph is worthy to stand here, let alone make us leave!"

"Tch," the ambassador scoffed through gritted teeth, picking his ear hard with his left hand. "Our great moon is right above your heads, and we have enough cannons to blast this broken ball into a sieve."

"I'm a cultured person, oh no, I'm a 'cultured beast.' I'll leave you a way out, don't be ungrateful."

The shadows on Wanorić's face seemed to deepen, and he almost blended into the darkness of the Imperial double-headed eagle relief behind him.

His eyes swept over the other high lords, only to see their obese bodies huddled in their chairs, whispering amongst themselves, avoiding his gaze.

"You green-skinned orcs know only one principle: violence." He took a deep breath, his icy voice piercing the air. "Negotiation? What scheme are you plotting now? The Empire will never make deals with any aliens!"

"Hahaha!" The ambassador let out a deafening laugh. "You little shrimp have quite the backbone, unlike the rest of the people here."

The ambassador took another deep drag on his pipe, exhaling white smoke that instantly transformed into a large cleaver before quickly disappearing. He grinned, picked his teeth with his fingers, and flicked the grime from his fingers onto the long table in front of him.

"Surrender unconditionally, and I may be merciful and let you leave," the ambassador said dismissively. "Otherwise, you will remain as slaves. Every year, you will hand over half of your little shrimp to us as toys and food, along with all your shiny stones and all your tin cans."

"Sign now! Otherwise..." The ambassador pointed to the moon outside the glass dome of the parliament hall, the meaning of which was self-evident.

Upon hearing this, the already tense high lords turned even more pale.

The data panel in the Minister of the Interior's hand slipped to the ground with a crisp sound, and the screen displayed a line of text: "Estimated civilian casualty rate: 96.7%; Estimated earliest arrival time of support troops: three months."

His lips trembled as he looked at the merchant fleet representative beside him, who was staring intently at the floor, as if trying to find an escape route through the marble patterns.

The Pope's prayers grew faster, yet increasingly faint. Faced with the heavy burden of reality, this pitiful old man seemed to be wallowing in his so-called faith.

Wanorić sat down in silence, exchanging glances with the representatives from the Ministry of Justice and the court, both of whom could see the anger and helplessness in each other's eyes.

That filthy orc was right; at this moment, there was no way for the entire Terra to deal with that Battle Moon.

The navy on Terra has suffered heavy casualties, the Astartes forces are not on Terra, and the Mechanicus on Mars has broken its alliance and refused to provide support.

All of this confirms that Terra is now on the brink of its most dangerous moment. Without a miracle, the Throne World will be engulfed in flames.

Of course, the Grand Tutor also thought of another hope, which was the legendary Imperial Guard.

However, the Imperial Guards have not appeared in the empire for a long time. They have been guarding the inner palace, and even a high lord like myself, at the pinnacle of imperial power, has never seen the legendary Imperial Guards.

"Your Excellency Ambassador…" the Minister of the Interior finally mustered his last shred of courage, his voice barely a whisper, "Evacuate… evacuate the entire Terra, billions of people, millennia of accumulated suffering. This… this cannot be accomplished in a short time. Could… could you grant me some more time?"

The Minister of the Interior, who was originally an expert in negotiation, was now unable to utter a complete sentence.

"Enough with the nonsense," the ambassador said impatiently, pulling a piece of parchment from his pocket and slamming it onto the long table. "Sign it!"

An elderly administrative official, his hands trembling, picked up the orc parchment that the ambassador had slammed on the table. On it, various unequal terms were scrawled crookedly in red paint.

Under Vangorich's murderous gaze, he handed the parchment to the Minister of the Interior, who and his staff immediately gathered and whispered among themselves:

"Perhaps we can agree temporarily... in exchange for time."

"We can surrender temporarily and relocate the capital to plan for the future..."

"By the Emperor! We cannot abandon Terra!"

Various voices rose and fell, and various opinions appeared under the sacred dome of the council and under the gaze of the imperial statue.

"Move the capital? Surrender?"

A deep, authoritative voice boomed like thunder at the entrance to the parliament hall.