The Architect of Freedom (Tau SI)

[kankup]

Age: 5 Cycles

I woke up screaming.

It wasn't a child's cry, the kind you'd expect from a five-year-old Tau. No, it was the cry of a man who had just realized he had been reborn into the worst possible setting imaginable.

Warhammer 40,000.

My mind, fractured between my past life as a human and my present as a Tau child, reeled with the implications. The moment I opened my eyes, my instincts took over. I felt small, too small, my limbs weak and uncoordinated, my blue-grey skin smooth and unfamiliar. My heart pounded in my chest with the realization of where—what—I was. The Tau Empire, the Greater Good, the never-ending wars, the mind control of the Ethereals…

I was in hell.

For a few moments, I sat in stunned silence, struggling to process my surroundings. The walls were smooth, lined with glowing strips of soft blue light, the aesthetic sleek and efficient. It was unmistakably Tau architecture. I was in a nursery, the hum of automated drones maintaining the habitat. My small fingers curled into fists, my blunt nails pressing against my palms.

I was Kais'Raal, a young Tau of the Fio caste (Earth Caste)—the engineers and builders of the Empire. But I was also… me. A human from the 21st century, armed with knowledge of the grimdark future that awaited this galaxy. My breath came in shallow gasps as my thoughts raced.

The Tau weren't the worst faction in 40K, but they were doomed. The Ethereals, the benevolent yet insidious ruling caste, held their society in check with pheromone-based mind control. That alone was terrifying, but worse still was the Warp—an eldritch realm of chaos and madness lurking just beyond the veil of reality. The Tau's natural resistance to it had kept them insulated, but if I carried even a fragment of the Celestial Forge, I could not remain unnoticed forever. Tzeentch, the Architect of Fate, or his accursed oracle, Kairos Fateweaver, might eventually take interest. That was terrifying.

I needed a plan.

---

Age: 6 Cycles

The first year was spent gathering information. Despite my age, my intelligence far outpaced my peers—an advantage I carefully concealed. Tau society valued unity, and standing out too much, too soon, could attract the wrong kind of attention.

I observed everything. The way my caretakers moved, how the drones operated, the layout of the nursery complex, even the subtle ways older Tau deferred to Ethereals. Every piece of information mattered. I had no power yet, no influence, no ability to change my fate. But knowledge? Knowledge was the first step.

And the first thing I learned was that I was weak. Physically, I was a child. But even compared to adult Tau, the Fio caste was built for endurance, not strength. The Fire caste—the warriors of the Empire—were stronger, faster, deadlier. If I was to survive long-term, I needed to compensate for my natural shortcomings. That meant technology. The right inventions, the right augmentations, the right enhancements—if I planned carefully, I could become far more than what my body would normally allow.

Fio training focused on mechanics, energy systems, and efficiency. The Tau were brilliant engineers, but they lacked flexibility. They improved existing designs rather than innovating. That was my opening.

I needed resources, autonomy, and secrecy. But most importantly, I needed a way to resist both the Ethereals' influence and the corruption of the Warp. Mind control was a death sentence, stripping me of free will, locking me into blind servitude. And I knew exactly what I needed to counter it:

A combination of biological engineering and Gellar Field technology.

---

Age: 8 Cycles

By now, I had earned my place in the Fio caste as an apprentice, gaining access to workshops and fabrication equipment. My specialty? Micro-manufacturing, automation, and genetic manipulation. While my peers focused on improving plasma weaponry and drones, I subtly introduced ideas about self-replicating nano-fabricators and biological countermeasures to pheromonal control.

Officially, I was working on efficiency-enhancing fabrication units for the Empire. Unofficially? I was designing a hidden workshop capable of producing anything I needed, without oversight.

The first iteration of my personal fabricator was crude, barely capable of assembling simple circuits. But it was a start. With time, I could refine it, expand its capabilities, and eventually produce components for my Gellar Field prototype.

At the same time, I began experimenting with genetic engineering, developing a way to alter my own biology. If I could modify my neural receptors to block or resist the Ethereals' pheromones, I could achieve true independence.

---

Age: 10 Cycles

The day my Inspired Inventor ability manifested, I nearly collapsed from the sheer mental overload.

It came as a sharp, electric jolt through my skull—knowledge, blueprints, raw understanding pouring into my mind like a flood. But what made it even more overwhelming was the choice.

I could decide what to receive.

The options that appeared in my mind were varied, powerful, and potentially dangerous. Some of them were impossibly advanced, bordering on magic in their capabilities. Others were more grounded, yet still leagues beyond what the Tau currently possessed. But I knew I had to be careful. If I chose the wrong thing too soon, I could draw attention—either from the Ethereals or from something far, far worse.

The first choice had to be subtle. Something that advanced my goals without exposing me.

After careful deliberation, I selected a compact, efficient energy regulator—one that could significantly reduce the power requirements of any shielding technology. On its own, it wasn't anything suspicious—just another minor efficiency improvement in power distribution. But for me? It was the key to a functional, personal Gellar Field.

I almost wept. It was possible. Difficult? Yes. But doable. The core problem was power efficiency—Gellar Fields were designed to shield entire starships, requiring enormous energy sources. A portable version would need to be dramatically optimized.

This invention alone wouldn't be enough, but it was a critical first step. If I could integrate it into a wearable system, something I could keep on me at all times, I'd be safe from both the Warp's influence and the Ethereals' mind control.

But secrecy was paramount. If the ruling caste discovered what I was working on, I wouldn't just be reprimanded—I'd be eliminated.

---

Age: 12 Cycles

The fabricator was complete. Hidden beneath my assigned workshop, its autonomous systems quietly manufactured components according to my blueprints. I had spent months perfecting it, ensuring it operated without oversight.

Its purpose? To produce the two most important inventions of my life.

The first was the Personal Gellar Field Generator.

I had feared it wouldn't work—feared that my calculations, my refinements, were flawed. But the moment I activated it, the change was immediate.

The ever-present, almost imperceptible pressure at the edges of my mind—the one I had never truly been able to shake—vanished.

It had been subtle, almost like background noise. A constant, distant weight, something I had learned to ignore. Now that it was gone, I finally understood just how much it had been there all along.

The Warp was dangerous. The Ruinous Powers were distant, but not blind. The more I used the Forge, the more I advanced, the more inevitable it became that something would take notice. The Gellar Field was my first line of defense against that.

But that alone wasn't enough.

The second invention mattered even more.

A genetic modification serum—my key to severing the Ethereals' hold over me.

Their control wasn't merely one thing. It wasn't just ideology, nor was it purely pheromones. It was a biological imperative, a system so deeply rooted in our physiology that most Tau never even questioned it.

The presence of an Ethereal triggered a reaction in all Tau—something primal, something instinctual. Their pheromones didn't command in a crude, overt way. Instead, they soothed, guided, reinforced. A Tau in an Ethereal's presence would feel calm, assured, secure—a deep, abiding sense that following their lead was right.

It wasn't slavery. It was devotion, chemically enforced.

And it was a shackle.

One I was about to break.

The First Injection

I held up the vial, watching the serum shift in the dim light of my workshop.

This was irreversible.

Once I took this step, there was no going back.

I injected the serum.

A sharp, cold pulse spread through my body. The formula worked slowly, rewriting my neural structure piece by piece over the course of weeks. I couldn't afford an instant rejection—a sudden biological change would flag me in medical scans. No, it had to be gradual, something I could attribute to simple growth and development.

It started as a strange, distant sensation—something almost imperceptible at first.

A dulling.

As if my senses were adjusting, recalibrating to something fundamentally different.

The weeks passed. I worked, trained, studied. I watched my peers, observed every reaction they had in the presence of authority.

I was waiting for the test.

Age: 13 Cycles – The Test

It came sooner than expected.

A high-ranking Ethereal was scheduled to review my research sector. A normal part of our society's function—something I had experienced before.

But this time, I would experience it differently.

The day arrived. The Ethereal entered the facility, flanked by Fire Warrior guards. My fellow Fio engineers stood in perfect formation, their backs straight, their hands folded behind them, their eyes shining with unquestioning devotion.

And then it happened.

I watched it.

The moment he stepped into the room, I saw it wash over them—an unconscious shift, an invisible calmness that settled into their bones. Shoulders relaxed, expressions softened, tension vanished.

It was instant.

Before, I would have felt it too—a sense of belonging, of reassurance, of purpose.

But now?

I felt nothing.

I wasn't repulsed. I wasn't angered. I simply… wasn't affected.

It was alienating, in a way. Like being the only one standing outside in the cold while everyone else basked in unseen warmth.

I watched them, seeing every micro-expression, every unquestioning nod, every subtle reinforcement of control that they didn't even realize was happening.

For the first time, I truly understood.

The Tau weren't forced to obey. They weren't even aware that they had no choice.

The control was so deeply ingrained, so woven into their very biology and culture, that they never thought to resist.

And I?

I had become something else.

A singular, aberrant existence. A Tau who was no longer Tau in the way the Ethereals defined it.

And no one noticed.

I played my part perfectly—bowed at the right times, nodded at the right words, responded as expected.

And the Ethereal?

He didn't even glance at me twice.

I had done it.

The Future

The Tau Empire was blind, not by choice, but by design.

If we continued down this path, we would be devoured by the horrors of the galaxy. The Imperium, the Orks, the Tyranids, the Necrons—they were all coming, and the Tau were nothing but prey before them.

And beyond it all, in the Warp, something watched.

But now?

Now, I had power.

Now, I had knowledge.

The Ethereals thought they controlled our destiny.
The Imperium thought we were insignificant.
The galaxy saw us as prey.

They were wrong.

The Tau Empire would evolve.

And it would start with me.

 

[kankup]

Age: 12 Cycles[
Freedom was a hollow thing if I was the only one who had it.

I had severed my chains, altered my very biology to escape the pheromonal grip of the Ethereals, but that was only a small victory. The Greater Good was more than just chemical control—it was an ideology, an all-consuming doctrine woven into every aspect of Tau society. From birth, we were taught our place, our duty, our purpose. To question was heresy. To disobey was treason.

And yet, I had done both.

But what was one rogue Tau against an entire civilization of the obedient?

I was free in body. But my people remained bound.

I couldn't fight this alone. I needed allies. But I couldn't simply announce my defiance—the moment the Ethereals suspected even a whisper of dissent, their enforcers would erase me from existence.

Not an army. Not yet. A movement. A foundation. A cause.

And the first step was finding the right people.

Age: 13 Cycles

Identifying potential allies required patience. The Ethereals' influence was pervasive, and any sign of disobedience was quickly rooted out. I spent months watching my peers, searching for those who hesitated when an order was given, who asked questions rather than blindly accepting.

I found my first in Fio'la T'au Sa'cea, an Earth Caste engineer with a reputation for innovation—and frustration. He wasn't reckless, but he constantly sought ways to improve efficiency, questioning outdated traditions with a quiet defiance.

I approached him cautiously during a break in our engineering work, ensuring we were beyond the surveillance range of monitoring drones.

"Sa'cea," I began, my voice low, careful. "Have you ever wondered if our adherence to tradition hinders innovation?"

He didn't answer immediately, simply regarding me with a measured gaze. Then, he glanced around to ensure we weren't overheard. "Careful, Kais'Raal. Such thoughts can lead to trouble."

I leaned closer. "Only if spoken aloud. But what if there were others who felt the same? Others who believe in progress over blind obedience?"

A long pause. He studied me, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in his eyes—something unsaid, something that had been suppressed for too long.

Then, finally, he gave a slow, subtle nod. "Perhaps we should discuss this further. In private."

And just like that, the first seed had been planted.

Age: 14 Cycles

Our meetings were cautious at first, careful whispers exchanged in the dark corners of workshops or behind the veil of classified projects. But soon, others began to join. A Water Caste trader, J'kaara, whose dealings had exposed him to inconsistencies in the so-called unity of the Empire. A young Fire Caste soldier, Kunas, who had seen comrades punished for thinking instead of simply obeying.

We gave our movement a name—El'ro'cha, "The Awakened Path."

One evening, in a dimly lit maintenance sector, our growing group gathered once more.

J'kaara's voice broke the silence, his tone both urgent and uncertain. "We've been talking, theorizing, but if we're serious about this… we need a plan. Something concrete."

I folded my arms, already anticipating this moment. "Agreed. We need to think beyond discussions. We need to effect real change."

Kunas, the youngest among us, leaned forward. "The Ethereals control through their pheromones, right? What if we could… neutralize that? Not just for ourselves, but for everyone?"

The room fell deathly silent. It was a dangerous idea. A bold idea.

J'kaara frowned, skeptical. "Neutralizing their control is one thing, but the moment they realize we're immune, they'll see us as a threat. They'll respond with force."

"Which is why we must be careful," I countered. "We don't just need a countermeasure—we need a way to distribute it. Quietly. Subtly. Without detection."

Sa'cea, ever the pragmatist, gave a short, cynical laugh. "And how exactly do you propose we do that? We don't have access to the entire Empire's supply chain."

I met his gaze and smiled. "Not yet."

Age: 15 Cycles

We worked in secret. Sa'cea and I dedicated our nights to research, developing a synthetic pheromone blocker—an engineered compound designed to desensitize a Tau's olfactory receptors over time.

But science alone was not enough.

The real challenge was distribution.

One by one, our members infiltrated key infrastructure—water purification plants, medical dispensaries, supply depots. We didn't act immediately. That would be reckless. Instead, we mapped everything. We needed to know where we could introduce the pheromone blocker without immediate detection.

Yet, the more we planned, the more I realized something critical.

Simply making the population immune wouldn't be enough. The Ethereals were more than just their pheromones—they were symbols, icons of the Greater Good. If they sensed a shift in the people, they would react with overwhelming force.

I gathered our inner circle and laid out the harsh truth.

"We cannot simply free the people all at once. If we remove the Ethereals' control too quickly, society will collapse into chaos. The Mont'au—the age of anarchy—will return. The Ethereals may be our enemy, but they are also the only stabilizing force the Tau have ever known. If we rip that force away without preparation, billions will suffer."

J'kaara's expression darkened. "Then what do you suggest?"

I met his gaze. "We take control of the transition. We eliminate all but one of the Ethereals—leave only a single figurehead. One we control. Through him, we can slowly reshape Tau society, guiding it away from dependence on pheromones and toward a new way of thinking."

Sa'cea exhaled sharply. "That's… ambitious. But how do we eliminate the others without arousing suspicion?"

"An accident," I said simply. "A fatal, tragic accident."

Kunas frowned. "And the survivor? How do we control an Ethereal?"

I was silent for a long moment. The answer had been forming in my mind for some time, but I had not yet dared to voice it.

Then, finally, I spoke.

"We break him."

Age: 16 Cycles

An opportunity presented itself in the form of the Annual Science and Innovation Symposium—a prestigious gathering where the brightest minds of the Empire showcased their advancements under the watchful gaze of the Ethereals.

This year, one such overseer would be Aun'ui T'au Or'es.

An Ethereal of middling rank but considerable influence, Or'es was known for his keen interest in technological progress. That interest would be his downfall.

The plan was dangerous. If even a single thing went wrong, we would be exposed, executed, and our movement crushed before it could truly begin. There was no room for error.

Direct confrontation was suicide. Ethereals were never alone, always flanked by Fire Caste honor guards—warriors whose loyalty had been forged since birth. Their devotion was absolute. They would rather die than allow harm to befall their master.

But we didn't need to fight them.

We needed to separate them.

J'kaara, through his connections in the Water Caste, arranged for Or'es to receive a personal demonstration of a classified neural interface project—a supposed breakthrough in battlefield coordination that would allow Fire Warriors to operate as a single, near-telepathic unit.

Aun'ui Or'es, always eager to personally review promising innovations, accepted.

His guards, however, were not permitted inside.

High-level neural interfaces required precise calibration and complete sensory immersion. Any external stimuli could interfere with the process. That was our excuse, and the Ethereal's own bureaucratic protocols worked in our favor. The honor guards had no choice but to wait outside.

The moment Or'es stepped into the sealed chamber, the trap was sprung.

A localized stasis field activated instantly, freezing him in place. His body remained upright, his expression neutral, as if he had merely paused mid-thought.

Outside, his guards stood unaware, waiting patiently for their master's return.

At the same time, a synthetic decoy was deployed—an advanced bio-clone, identical in every way, programmed with implanted memories and behavioral conditioning to mimic the Ethereal's mannerisms for the next few hours.

It would walk, speak, and command as if nothing had changed.

By the time its programmed responses degraded, it would no longer matter.

Or'es was ours.

And no one knew.

With Or'es secured, we moved to eliminate the rest.

The Ethereals were not merely leaders—they were symbols. Figures of divine reverence, orchestrators of unity. If even one suspected treachery, the entire station would be locked down.

We couldn't let that happen.

A public assassination would be too obvious. A targeted strike, too suspicious.

Instead, we engineered an accident.

The following morning, a lethal atmospheric toxin leak was reported in the Ethereal's private quarters. A "tragic malfunction" in the life support systems.

By the time it was detected, it was already too late.

Every single Ethereal on the station was found dead. Every single one—except Aun'ui Or'es.

To the public, it was a catastrophe. A freak incident. An irreplaceable loss.

To us?

It was victory.

The Tau, bound by doctrine, did not question the event. The Ethereals were divine, but even divine figures could fall to tragedy. No one suspected sabotage.

The people mourned. The Fire Caste tightened security. The Water Caste spread messages of reassurance.

And Aun'ui T'au Or'es remained—the sole survivor. The last of his kind on the station.

Our Ethereal.

No one knew he was already in our hands.

Capturing him was only the first step. The real challenge was controlling him.

We could not simply hold him prisoner—not indefinitely. He had to remain the Ethereal. He had to act the part, command respect, issue orders, ensure stability.

But he had to do so under our will.

And so, I turned to the knowledge I had gathered from my third Inspired Inventor point.

I focused it on neurological manipulation techniques—the forbidden science of reprogramming the mind.

The Ethereals had spent millennia perfecting the art of control through pheromones and psychological conditioning.

I would reverse-engineer that control. And turn it against them.

The Neural Reconfiguration Interface
It began as a concept—an integration of multiple techniques:

• Hypnotic suggestion, to implant subconscious directives.
• Direct neural stimulation, to shape emotional responses.
• Sensory manipulation, to rewrite perception and memory.

But theory was nothing without practice.

And Or'es would be our test subject.

For weeks, we worked.

At first, he resisted. Even deprived of his pheromones, his will was strong. His mind, shaped by a lifetime of absolute authority, refused to yield.

He raged. He cursed. He demanded.

He tried to use his voice, his authority, to command us. Even in chains, he expected obedience.

But no one listened.

And slowly… very slowly… his certainty began to break.

We exposed him to carefully crafted simulations. Endless, overwhelming visions.

Visions of a Greater Good where he had always been loyal to me.

Visions of a past where I had always been his most trusted disciple.

Where I had been his true successor.

At first, he rejected them.

Then, he began to question them.

Then, he began to accept them.

And finally…

He believed them.

One day, after countless sessions, he awoke and smiled at me.

A genuine, reverent smile. The same smile he had once given only to other Ethereals.

"What is your will, my student?" he asked.

I knew then—he was mine.

With Or'es under our control, I gathered my followers in secret.

"We will not liberate the Tau by tearing everything down at once," I told them. "If we move too quickly, we will bring only anarchy. Chaos. The Mont'au will return. The people still need order. They still need an Ethereal."

I turned to Or'es, standing beside me, his presence radiating the same quiet authority as always.

"And so, we will give them one."

The others exchanged glances, uncertain, but I continued.

"Through him, we will shape the future. Slowly, carefully, we will guide the Tau away from dependence on pheromones. We will reshape the foundations of our society until the day comes when the Ethereals are no longer needed."

I looked at Or'es. He was smiling.

A programmed smile. A controlled smile.

A puppet.

And when that day comes…

I clenched my fist.

"...Aun'ui T'au Or'es will die."

By my hand.

 

[kankup]

Age: 17 Cycles

For the first time in history, an Ethereal homeworld stood without Ethereals.

And no one knew.

Not yet.

T'au'n—the heart of the Empire—still functioned under the illusion of guidance. The people obeyed, industry hummed, and Fire Caste patrols maintained the peace. The bureaucracy remained intact. The system had been too well built, too ingrained in the Tau psyche, for immediate collapse.

But the deception was delicate. One misstep, one inconsistency, and the illusion would unravel.

We could not let that happen.

I stood in the command dome, gazing at the vast holomap of the T'au Empire. Dozens of worlds flickered in shades of blue, indicating stability. A handful, like Dal'yth and Bork'an, pulsed faintly—warning signs. Questions had begun. Ethereals from other septs sought answers.

J'kaara stood beside me, his hands clasped behind his back. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a tight frown as he read the latest transmissions.

"They're pressing harder," he murmured. "Bork'an has requested direct communication with Or'es. Dal'yth insists on a joint council to 'reaffirm the unity of the Greater Good.'"

"And if we refuse?" I asked.

"They will find ways around it," he admitted. "The Ethereals are few, but they are persistent. If Or'es remains silent too long, they will insist on sending their own to 'assist' him."

That could not happen.

Sa'cea approached, his face gaunt from days without rest. "We can sustain the illusion for now," he said, "but a direct conversation with another Ethereal is impossible. They'd see through the deception in an instant."

I already knew why.

The Ethereals were more than rulers. They were harmonizers. Their control was woven into every part of Tau society, not just through their presence but through how they spoke. A conversation between Ethereals was not merely an exchange of words—it was a carefully structured reaffirmation of the Greater Good's doctrine. Their phrasing, their responses, even the rhythm of their speech were all calibrated to maintain absolute cohesion.

If Or'es were alive but acting independently, that harmony would break. Even a single phrase spoken out of alignment—a moment of hesitation, an unintended implication—could trigger suspicion.

We forced Or'es into obedience through artificial means, the risk was even greater.

Words had power.

If he said something that no Ethereal should say—if he suggested that T'au'n should govern itself, or that the Greater Good did not require an Ethereal's hand to guide it—then the deception would collapse instantly.

J'kaara exhaled. "We must delay them."

"How?" Vior'los asked, arms crossed. "If we keep Or'es silent, suspicion grows. If we let him 'speak,' they will see through it. What other choice is there?"

I turned back to the holomap, staring at T'au'n.

"Our world must stand alone."

The others looked at me.

"If we can no longer rely on the wider Empire's infrastructure without risking exposure, we must become independent of it," I continued. "Resources, industry, even food production—everything must be redirected toward full self-sufficiency."

Sa'cea's expression darkened. "That's no small task. We rely on imports for advanced components, even from Vior'la and Bork'an. If we cut ourselves off, we will stagnate."

"Not if we plan carefully," I said. "We maintain the trade routes for now, but begin covertly shifting production inward. Every system must be reworked, every reliance on external supply chains eliminated. If Dal'yth or Bork'an suspect something and attempt economic pressure, it must mean nothing to us."

J'kaara nodded slowly. "It would be difficult, but not impossible. We could divert civilian infrastructure projects toward hidden arms production. Retool automated assembly lines to focus on our needs rather than the Empire's quotas."

"And food?" Vior'los asked. "T'au'n is no agricultural world."

"There are hydroponic sectors," Sa'cea mused, rubbing his chin. "If we expand them and incorporate higher-yield cultivation methods, we might be able to sustain the population."

I gestured toward the orbital shipyards. "And the fleet?"

Vior'los smirked. "The Dal'yth fleet expects us to construct cargo haulers. I see no reason why cargo haulers cannot also carry hidden weapons arrays."

I nodded. "Good. If we cannot outfight an invasion, we must outlast one."

J'kaara, however, still looked troubled. "This will buy us time, but eventually, the other Ethereals will demand something we cannot fake: a conversation."

I met his gaze. "Then we make them hesitate."

Silence.

"The Ethereals are not accustomed to defiance," I continued. "If Or'es proclaims that T'au'n has entered a 'period of isolation for spiritual recalibration,' it will make them wary. The Ethereals on other worlds won't understand it, but they will hesitate to act against it."

J'kaara frowned. "And when that hesitation ends?"

"Then we must be ready."

A cold weight settled over the room.

This was not a long-term solution. It was a delay—a way to ensure we were prepared when the inevitable came.

We could not remain within the Empire forever.

But for now, the veil of the Greater Good held.

And as long as it did, we still had time.



The air in the command chamber remained heavy. A dozen holo-displays flickered, showing our planet's logistics, military readiness, and projected timelines. Every solution we proposed had one problem—time.

We could fortify.

We could make T'au'n self-sufficient.

But eventually, we would be found.

And when that happened, there would be no diplomacy. No negotiation. Just compliance… or annihilation.

J'kaara exhaled. "What about the Farsight Enclaves?"

It wasn't the first time the name had been spoken, but this was the first time it carried any real weight.

The chamber went silent for a few moments. The Ethereal caste had long condemned O'Shovah's breakaway empire, branding it heresy. Yet, deep down, many warriors still held a level of respect for the renegade Commander.

"We don't even know if they would help us," Vior'los muttered. "Even if they did, do you know how far away the Enclaves are?"

Sa'cea answered. "Eight light-years."

That number alone was enough to kill the idea before it could gain traction.

Our FTL drives were not true superluminal technology. The T'au method of faster-than-light travel functioned on gravitic warp bubbles, which allowed us to move at approximately one light-year per year.

That meant it would take eight years to reach the Enclaves.

Another eight to return.

Even if we sent a message drone, even if they somehow agreed to help us, by the time any reinforcements arrived, it would already be sixteen years too late.

Sa'cea shook his head. "The Farsight Enclaves are beyond our reach. They might as well be in another galaxy."

J'kaara scowled. "Then what? We just keep fortifying until the Empire realizes something is wrong? Even if we control every industry, the moment an Ethereal arrives in person, it's over."

That was the real problem.

We were not being actively watched… yet.

The Empire was vast, and a single world on the outer edges was not high on their immediate concerns. But eventually, they would send an Ethereal to check on us. And when that happened, we would no longer be able to maintain the illusion.

We needed a way out.

But how could we escape the inescapable?

J'kaara scoffed. "There's no way to run. We don't have the means to travel far enough to avoid detection, and even if we did, we'd still be in this universe. Unless you're suggesting we somehow take the entire planet and—"

He stopped.

Because he realized what he just said.

His expression twisted in disbelief.

"You're not actually considering—"

"It's impossible," Vior'los interrupted. "Even the Imperium, with all their technology, don't move planets. Terraform them, maybe, but not take them outside of reality."

"Not to mention," Sa'cea added, "interdimensional travel is theoretical at best. The Imperium, the Eldar, even the most advanced species rely on the Warp or the Webway—but those are still bound to this universe." He folded his arms. "Escaping the galaxy is already impossible. Escaping the universe itself? That's a fantasy."

I remained silent.

Listening.

Thinking.

And then, I spoke.

"…I have an idea."

They all turned to face me.

I kept my voice neutral. Calculated.

"No matter how much we discuss, no matter how much we analyze, all of our strategies rely on playing within the Empire's rules. We're limiting ourselves to what we think is possible."

I glanced toward the holomap of T'au'n.

"But I do not accept those limitations."

Sa'cea's brow furrowed. "And what, exactly, do you propose?"

I met his gaze.

"I propose we take T'au'n… and leave this universe."

J'kaara let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "That's insane. We just said that interdimensional travel isn't possible."

"No," I corrected, "we said it isn't known to be possible."

Silence.

And then Vior'los frowned. "You're suggesting there's a way?"

I didn't answer.

Because at that moment—I made my decision.

[Inspired Inventor: -2 Points Spent]

A flash of understanding.

A cascade of knowledge.

Equations, designs, theoretical models—all of it flooded into my mind in an instant. The kind of breakthrough that should have taken thousands of years of technological evolution, compressed into a single moment.

I kept my expression calm. Neutral.

But inside, I knew.

It could be done.

"We need two things," I said, stepping toward the display. "A power source beyond anything the T'au Empire has ever utilized. And a method of breaching dimensional barriers."

Vior'los' eyes narrowed. "You're speaking as if you already have the answers."

I turned to him.

"I do."

The first key to our escape—a ZPM.

With this, we could detach from all external supply chains.

With this, we could power the impossible.

And the second key—a Dolmen Gate.

The Necrons had long since mastered breaches in reality. The Eldar Webway was sealed to us, but the Necrons had forced their way into it with Dolmen Gates.

But my knowledge went beyond even that.

A Dolmen Gate was not just a gateway to the Webway.

With the right modifications, it could be expanded—a bridge not just between dimensions, but between universes.

J'kaara eyed me warily. "You're… serious."

I nodded.

Sa'cea exhaled. "Assuming we even build these… devices, how do we construct them without raising suspicion?"

That was the final piece of the puzzle.

"I control every aspect of this world," I reminded them. "The factories, the shipyards, the resource extraction—all of it. We simply build under the guise of industrial expansion. The moment we announce we are increasing military readiness, no one will question resource allocation."

It would take years.

It would require secrecy.

But step by step, component by component, we would construct our escape.

J'kaara shook his head. "You are actually insane."

I smiled.

"But am I wrong?"

Silence.

No one answered.

Because they knew I wasn't.

And so, without their knowledge, I had already taken the first step.

I had already set the future into motion.

T'au'n had always been a world of order. A cog in the great machine of the Empire. But under my control, it was becoming something else entirely. Factories that once produced weapons of war now worked toward something far greater—our liberation.

For years, we had lived under the watchful eyes of the Ethereals and the rigid structure of the T'au Empire. To most, the Empire was security. Purpose. Order. But I knew better. I had seen what lay ahead—the slow, inevitable doom that awaited us all. The Empire was stagnating, blind to the horrors that would one day consume it. The Imperium, Chaos, the endless tides of war…

There was only one solution: leave this universe behind.

But the risks were enormous. This was not just an act of defiance. It was treason on a scale never before imagined. If discovered, there would be no mercy.

---

The ZPM was the first piece.

It was built deep within the industrial districts, disguised under the pretense of an experimental energy project. Even the most loyal engineers had no idea of its true purpose. To them, it was simply an ambitious attempt to achieve energy self-sufficiency for T'au'n.

But beneath its exterior was something far greater.

Supercooled lattice structures, subspace oscillators, energy field stabilizers—pieces of technology that should have been beyond the reach of the T'au. And yet, they came together seamlessly, guided by hands that knew exactly what was needed.

The Modified Dolmen Gate was another challenge entirely.

Reverse-engineering Necron technology was dangerous, not just in a physical sense but politically. The T'au had encountered the Necrons before, and the mere suggestion of tampering with their artifacts was enough to trigger suspicion. If any of the surviving Ethereals got word of this… verification teams would arrive. Experts would be sent to question every word, every decision. The moment they found an inconsistency, the truth would unravel.

That could not be allowed to happen.

I took no chances. The Dolmen Gate's modifications were done in absolute secrecy, with only the most loyal workers permitted access. Even they did not fully understand what they were building.

What had once been a mere portal for ships was now something far greater. Instead of linking to the Webway, I had recalibrated it to target the fundamental dimensional frequencies of reality itself. It would create a tear in space—not just a passage, but a shift, a full-scale translocation.

Instead of moving a fleet, it would move an entire world.

---

One mistake, and we would doom ourselves.

We weren't just escaping the T'au Empire—we were fleeing the horrors of this universe. If we weren't careful, we might leap from one nightmare into another.

Before the transition, I launched a series of probes, each one designed to scan alternate universes for three key conditions:

1. No dominant hostile civilizations – We could not afford to land in another war-torn galaxy.
2. A habitable world – T'au'n could not sustain itself indefinitely. We needed a stable ecosystem.
3. No supernatural or reality-warping threats – We had to escape Chaos. No more gods, no more daemons.

Each probe returned with data.

The first found a universe filled with superhuman warriors, dressed in red and blue, flying through the skies and reshaping reality with their mere presence.

Rejected.

The second discovered a galaxy ruled by an empire that wielded planet-destroying space stations and ancient energy swords.

Rejected.

The third located a world that seemed peaceful—until the sensors picked up evidence of magical warfare, beings with divine power waging endless conflicts over the fate of reality.

Rejected.

Then, after weeks of searching—we found it.

A perfect star system.

A main-sequence star, stable and long-lived. Two habitable planets—one nearly identical to T'au'n in atmosphere and climate, the other smaller but rich in minerals. No signs of intelligent life. No warring civilizations. No Chaos.

This was it. Our new home.

---

Age: 20 Cycles

The final preparations were made in secret.

The Dolmen Gate was primed, its modified structure charged by the incomprehensible power of the ZPM. An entire world's energy grid was repurposed, redirected toward a single moment.

The planet itself trembled. Energy crackled through the atmosphere. Space around us distorted, folding inward as the Dolmen Gate reached into the fabric of reality and pulled.

For a brief moment, T'au'n ceased to exist.

Then—

Light.

The sky was different. The sun had changed. The air was the same, but the world around us had been displaced. We had moved. We had escaped.

Sensors recalibrated. The two sister planets were exactly where they should be. The transition had been a success.

The people of T'au'n rejoiced. We were free. No more oversight. No more Ethereal commands dictating our every breath. No more Imperium, no more Orks, no more endless war.

But then—an anomaly.

---

An object had been detected at the edge of the system.

A structure. A station.

I watched as the display revealed its form—two vast prongs extending outward, a glowing sphere suspended between them.

The other T'au debated what it could be. A natural phenomenon? A relic of an extinct civilization?

I knew better.

I recognized that design.

My heart pounded—not in fear, but in realization.

We had not just left our old universe behind. We had entered another.

A universe where gods and daemons held no dominion. A universe where the greatest dangers were not eldritch horrors from the Warp, but politics, technology, and ambition.

In this new galaxy, we could thrive.

For the first time, T'au'n belonged to no empire but its own.

We had truly escaped.

And our future had just begun.

 

[kankup]

The great exodus was complete. Our world had survived the impossible—we had escaped the grim tide of the T'au Empire, the Imperium, and the horrors of the galaxy itself. We had broken free, but we could not allow our people to realize how deep that break truly was—not yet.

Aun'ui T'au Or'es, my carefully maintained Ethereal figurehead, stood in the heart of the grand assembly hall. The towering chamber, once designed for war councils and military logistics, now served as a place where the people of T'au'n gathered to seek guidance in an uncertain time.

Thousands of T'au stood before him—Fire Warriors, Earth Caste engineers, Air Caste pilots, and Water Caste diplomats—all waiting, their expressions mixed with fear, awe, and confusion.

They had seen the sky change. They had felt the tremors in the earth. Their home had been torn from its place in the universe, thrust into the unknown.

Or'es raised his hands, a calm presence in the storm of uncertainty.

"Children of T'au'n, we have endured a great trial. The immaterium is fickle, and the tides of the warp are unknowable even to the wisest among us. A rift beyond our understanding opened—one so vast, so powerful, that it sought to claim our world entirely. But we have endured. We have survived."

The whispers in the crowd stilled. Some of them knew of Chaos, of the terrible forces that lurked beyond the veil of reality. It was a logical explanation—one that placed the blame on the unknowable, rather than revealing the forbidden truth of what I had done.

Or'es continued, his voice calm and unwavering.

"We must not see this as a tragedy, but as an opportunity. We are together. The Greater Good does not fade simply because we stand beyond the reach of our kin. Indeed, it is now more vital than ever. We must rebuild—not just our world, but our purpose. The stars around us must be explored. We must secure our future."

That was the key—focus them on the future, not the past.

I stepped forward, standing beside Or'es. The moment my presence was acknowledged, I saw how the crowd's focus shifted. Or'es provided reassurance, but I was the one who acted.

"We do not know what lies beyond this system," I said, letting my voice carry through the hall. "But we are not defenseless. Our minds, our technology, our strength—none of it has been lost. We will expand, we will adapt, and we will thrive."

My words settled into them. The fear that gripped them slowly began to unravel, replaced with something else—determination.

I turned to the Earth Caste representatives. "Our first priority is self-sufficiency. We have already surveyed this system, and we have identified two key worlds: One, a mineral-rich world, perfect for industrial exploitation. The other, a habitable world, suitable for expansion."

Kel'shi, my chief engineer, gave a respectful nod. "We can begin operations within the next few cycles. Our automated mining facilities will take time to establish, but once they are running, we will have access to resources beyond what we ever possessed on T'au'n."

Expansion. Industry. These things would keep our people focused.

But there was a deeper issue to address.

Material needs could be handled with time. But the ideological chains of the Ethereals—those had to be unraveled carefully.

I gathered my closest advisors in the secured depths of my command chamber. The ones I could trust.

Kel'shi, the pragmatic engineer.
Ores'ka, the brilliant scientist.
Shas'vre J'karra, my military right hand.

The room was quiet as I addressed them.

"As I promised years ago, the freedom we dreamed of starts here. I do not want to be a hidden dictator any longer than necessary. The Empire kept control over our people through faith in the Ethereals. If we do not replace that faith with something else, our people will fall back into old patterns."

J'karra leaned forward, his crimson armor catching the dim light. "If we tell them the truth now—that the Ethereals were never divine, that they were nothing more than manipulators—what happens?"

I exhaled. "They will not believe it. Worse, they will reject it outright and turn against us."

Kel'shi frowned. "Then what do you propose?"

"Doubt." I let the word settle over them. "We plant questions, not accusations. We introduce conflicting narratives. We let them begin to ask on their own."

Ores'ka's eyes narrowed. "Through propaganda?"

"Through education. We control the information they receive. We encourage discourse—controlled, at first, but real. We introduce radical ideas, small ones at first. Some will dismiss them, but others will begin to ask questions. And once they start questioning, they will seek answers on their own."

J'karra exhaled. "A delicate game."

"A necessary one." I met each of their gazes. "If we are to be free, truly free, we cannot simply remove Aun'ui T'au Or'es and expect our people to understand. We must guide them toward the truth, so that when the time comes, they will accept it rather than reject it."

The ideological transition would take time. But there was another problem—our technological limitations.

That night, I sat alone in my personal chamber, reviewing the full extent of what I had available to me.

I had five Inspired Inventor points left.

Each point was precious—one every two cycles of my life. That meant I had to plan carefully.

What did we need most?

T'au lifespans were short. Fifty years, on average. A cruel joke of nature—just as a T'au reached their intellectual peak, their body failed them. Investing in biological engineering—perhaps through Imperial rejuvenation technology—could extend our lifespans.

Automation was another factor. The T'au were already highly advanced in that field, but we could push it further. Full automation of industry, agriculture, and military production would ensure we never faced scarcity.

And then there was expansion.

Our Dolmen Gate technology allowed interstellar reach, but should we invest in better FTL travel instead? The T'au Empire's gravitic drive was slow compared to the warp-based travel of the Imperium. If we could break that limitation, we could expand beyond what the Empire ever dreamed.

Or perhaps we needed something else—something to secure our dominance in this new galaxy. Planetary annihilation weaponry? Advanced material fabrication to create resources we lacked?

I exhaled, the weight of decision pressing down on me.

We were free, yes.

But we had only taken the first step.

The future of my people now depended on the choices I made next.

---

Before any true steps toward independence could be made, we needed to answer a fundamental question:

Where and when were we?

That meant one thing—finding Earth.

I could not reveal my true knowledge of the Mass Effect universe. That secret would remain mine alone. My advisors would never understand. Even if they believed me, they would question my loyalty, my vision. No, the truth had to remain hidden.

But I could frame it differently.

I stood at the head of the chamber, surrounded by my most trusted advisors. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, flickering holoscreens painting our faces with a cold glow. A single massive display dominated the central console, its surface alive with shifting star charts, probe telemetry, and system-wide reports.

Seated in the council was Shas'o Sa'cea, our hardened military commander, his posture rigid as ever, arms crossed in silent contemplation. Kel'shi, our lead scientist, studied the displays with calculating detachment, ever the rationalist. And then there was Aun'ui T'au Or'es, our Ethereal, a carefully maintained figurehead—a symbol, nothing more.

I took a breath. Measured. Confident. Purposeful.

"We must confirm whether or not we are still within our original galaxy."

I let the weight of the words settle before continuing.

"If this is merely another region of the universe, we must determine if the Imperium of Man is present. And that means locating Terra."

There was no hesitation, no objection. The logic was unassailable.

Kel'shi inclined his head slightly, fingers moving fluidly across the console. "Our stealth probe is ready. It can be sent through the Dolmen Gate immediately."

I nodded. "Proceed."

A hum resonated through the chamber as the Dolmen Gate activated—an unnatural ripple in space-time forming for an instant, then sealing itself shut as the probe passed through.

Now, we waited.

---

Hours passed.

The probe's journey was silent, its scanners working tirelessly to cross-reference celestial bodies, aligning patterns against the pre-existing starcharts. I watched as the data stream trickled in—stellar compositions, gravitational anomalies, pulsar signals—pieces of a puzzle slowly falling into place.

Then—

A priority alert.

"Target location identified."

The holo-display shifted, shifting from cold data readouts to a visual feed from the probe's cameras.

A blue-green sphere emerged against the black void, swathed in swirling clouds, landmasses sprawling beneath the atmosphere.

Earth.

It was unmistakable.

Kel'shi leaned forward, scrutinizing the readings. "Atmospheric composition matches expectations. Oxygen-nitrogen balance within habitable parameters. Magnetic field present. Civilization confirmed."

I let out a slow breath. This was it.

Shas'o Sa'cea's gaze remained fixed on the planet. "But what is their level of technology?"

Kel'shi's fingers danced across the interface. A new data stream scrolled across the holo-display.

Technology Level: Late Industrial / Early Atomic Age
Power Sources: Fossil fuels, hydroelectric, limited experimental nuclear
Transportation: Primarily combustion-engine-based ground vehicles
Communications: Radio-based networks, primitive computational machines

Kel'shi exhaled through his nose. "They are primitive."

I let a moment of silence pass before responding. "That is a dangerous assumption."

Kel'shi turned toward me, brow furrowed. "Explain."

I gestured toward the screen. "They may not have interstellar technology, but they are advancing. This is the stage where civilizations either destroy themselves… or lay the foundation for their future."

Then—a sudden alert.

"High-priority event detected."

One of the analysts turned, tension lacing his voice. "The probe has detected… a massive energy release on the surface."

My breath stilled.

"Show us."

The image shifted—adjusting focus, zooming in on a coastal city. Buildings clustered together in a grid-like pattern, roads weaving between them like veins. The coastline stretched outward, waves lapping against the shore.

Then—

Fire.

A brilliant sphere of light erupted at the city's center. The entire display flashed white, the probe's sensors momentarily overwhelmed.

When the image recalibrated, the city was gone.

A blackened wound now marred the landscape, a roiling mushroom cloud billowing into the sky. Smoke twisted like a living thing, thick and unnatural.

The devastation was total.

Kel'shi whispered first. "…Confirm."

The data flooded in, the probe's instruments analyzing every trace of the event.

Energy Signature: Nuclear Fission
Estimated Yield: 15-20 Kilotons
Weapon Type: Fission-Based Bomb

Shas'o Sa'cea exhaled sharply. "So. They have reached that stage."

Kel'shi's expression darkened. "This changes things."

I kept my face neutral, though inside, I felt the weight of revelation settle over me.

This was no test.

No controlled detonation in some barren desert.

This was war.

Shas'o Sa'cea broke the silence. "A species that wields such power, yet remains divided… a volatile combination."

Kel'shi nodded, deep in thought. "If they have only now developed nuclear capability, then that means—"

"They are still centuries away from interstellar flight," I finished. "At minimum, two hundred years."

Two centuries.

That meant we were over two hundred years before the events of Mass Effect.

Kel'shi folded his arms. "We are witnessing the pivotal moment in their history."

I nodded. "Yes. But we must be cautious. We do nothing for now. We observe. We study. And when the time comes… we decide how to act."

There were murmurs of agreement around the room.

But I knew this was only the beginning.

---

As the others left, I remained, staring at the smoldering ruins of the human city.

Two hundred years.

That was not a long time.

The T'au lifespan was too short to wait. Our species barely reached fifty years of age. Even the longest-lived among us would never see humanity's ascension.

Unless…

I turned my thoughts to my own resources.

The Inspired Inventor points.

Five remained.

I turned my gaze back to Earth, to the rising column of smoke.

The future was not set.

But I knew one thing for certain.

I would not fail.

 

[kankup]

The chamber was silent, the air thick with anticipation. Around me, my closest advisors watched the display with measured expressions, waiting for my next words. The weight of the moment pressed down on me. This was not just a decision for myself but for the entirety of our people. I exhaled slowly, steeling my thoughts.

"Before we discuss any long-term plans, we must ensure the continued survival and prosperity of our kind," I began, my voice calm but firm. "We have made great strides, but we are still vulnerable. Our existence here is uncertain, our future unwritten."

Kel'shi, ever the pragmatist, folded his arms. "Then you have something in mind. A means to strengthen our position?"

I nodded. "Yes. A foundational step. A technology that will grant us greater control over our own biology and the means to secure our growth."

I turned to one of the consoles, bringing up a display of genetic sequences and artificial womb designs. "Cloning."

A few murmurs spread across the room. Even among the more progressive minds in our society, cloning carried certain ethical and philosophical concerns. The T'au Empire had never fully embraced the concept. Not out of religious or moral objections, but simply because it had never been deemed necessary. Our population grew through careful planning, through controlled expansion. But now… things had changed.

Shas'o Sa'cea leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Cloning? We are not in immediate danger of population decline. The T'au are numerous."

"Yes," I agreed, "but our circumstances are unique. We no longer have the Empire to fall back on. We have been severed from the Septs, from our former colonies. We have no reinforcements coming. No fresh generations raised on distant worlds to replenish our numbers. We have only ourselves. And our world holds over twenty billion souls."

Kel'shi's expression turned thoughtful. "You anticipate expansion. Colonization."

I nodded. "It is inevitable. A single planet cannot sustain us forever, and we cannot afford stagnation. With every passing cycle, the necessity for new settlements, new worlds, grows stronger. But conventional methods of colonization are slow. Even under ideal conditions, it takes time for populations to grow and adapt to new environments. If we are to secure a true future, we must be able to accelerate that process."

Aun'ui T'au Or'es, our supposed Ethereal, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "Cloning is not simply a matter of numbers. There are… social implications. Will these clones be raised as citizens, or tools? Will they be given the same rights?"

I met his gaze steadily. "They will be T'au. Fully realized, fully integrated. The purpose of this technology is not to create an underclass, but to give us options. The ability to heal our wounded, replace lost lives, and ensure our expansion without sacrificing entire generations to the void."

Kel'shi studied the schematics on the screen. "And you have already devised the means?"

"In theory," I replied. "The framework is there, but it will require further refinement."

I reached inward, drawing upon the power that had shaped my rise—the Inspired Inventor points. I had learned much about their nature. Each point was an immeasurable leap forward, a singular moment of enlightenment that turned theoretical musings into perfected reality.

I spent the first point.

The knowledge unfolded within my mind, a rush of data and insight integrating seamlessly with my existing understanding. The intricacies of genetic stability, of rapid growth acceleration, of memory implantation and neural reinforcement—all became clear. What had been a concept was now an absolute certainty.

I exhaled slowly. "It is done."

Shas'o Sa'cea's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I tapped the console, altering the schematics in real time, adjusting values with a precision that had not existed moments ago. "I now understand it in full. We can begin construction of the first cloning facilities immediately."

Kel'shi's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Fascinating. And your next step?"

I turned back to the display, my thoughts already moving forward. "This is only the first stage. Cloning alone is not enough. We must also address a fundamental weakness of our species."

I called up another display—a breakdown of T'au biology. "Our lifespans. We live, on average, fifty years. Compared to many other species, this is a severe limitation. If we are to shape the future, we must ensure that we live long enough to see it."

Kel'shi let out a quiet breath. "You mean to extend our lifespan."

I nodded. "Through rejuvenation. The Imperium of Man has long possessed the means to prolong the lives of its elite through juvenat treatments, gene therapy, and cellular regeneration. I believe I can integrate similar principles into our own biology."

And so, I reached inward once more.

The second point.

Another flood of knowledge. The workings of Imperial juvenat procedures unfolded before me—chemical treatments, telomere extensions, organ regeneration techniques. The secrets of human longevity were now mine to wield.

But there was a problem.

"This technology was designed for humans," I admitted aloud. "We are different."

Kel'shi gave a slow nod. "Then you will need to tailor it."

"Yes," I said. "For that, I will need to deepen our understanding of T'au genetics."

A third point.

A fourth.

The final pieces fell into place. Every nuance of T'au biology was now laid bare before me. Every weakness, every strength. The adjustments to the rejuvenation process became obvious, the necessary modifications seamless. What had once been a desperate hope was now a tangible reality.

I exhaled sharply, my mind still racing through the sheer volume of new knowledge. "It is done. We can begin testing immediately."

Shas'o Sa'cea crossed his arms. "Testing on whom?"

I met his gaze steadily. "On clones. Mindless test subjects, created for the sole purpose of verifying the safety of the process. We will not risk living citizens."

A slow nod. "Prudent."

Kel'shi's lips curled into a rare smile. "We are on the precipice of something great."

I allowed myself a small exhale of relief. The first steps had been taken. The foundation laid. But there was still more to do.

Much more.

---

With the rejuvenation treatment successfully tested, I took the next step without hesitation. I personally underwent the procedure, integrating the advanced life-extension techniques derived from the Imperium of Man.

The process was not instantaneous, nor was it painless. My body had to adapt, my cells had to accept the changes, but the results were undeniable. I was now free from the constraints of the T'au's natural lifespan. Where once I could expect only fifty or sixty years at most, I now had centuries ahead of me.

Centuries to shape our destiny.

Yet even this was just the beginning. My final Inspired Inventor point remained, and I had already decided how it would be spent.

Planetary Annihilation.

Not a singular breakthrough, but a vast collection of interwoven technologies—automation, orbital industry, self-replicating machines, large-scale resource extraction, and planetary-scale warfare. A doctrine that, when fully realized, would allow us to command entire solar systems with overwhelming force. But for now, I would only scratch the surface.

I returned to my private chamber, locking the door behind me. This development would remain secret—at least for now. I needed full control over how this knowledge was implemented.

Taking a deep breath, I activated the Inspired Inventor system and spent the point.

The surge of information was unlike anything I had experienced before. Blueprints, calculations, entire methodologies burned themselves into my mind. I saw factories unlike anything the T'au had ever built, autonomous war machines capable of constructing entire armies in days, fleets that could be assembled in mere weeks, and planetary-scale operations that would render traditional logistics obsolete.

Yet this was only the foundation. I now understood the sheer scale of what lay ahead. More than twenty additional points would be required to unlock the full potential of these technologies.

But even at this level, it was already transformative.

The refinement of our automated construction systems would push our industrial capabilities to new heights. Mining operations could be scaled to unprecedented levels, ensuring a steady flow of critical resources. Defensive infrastructure could be deployed with unmatched speed and efficiency, while long-standing resource bottlenecks that had once limited the T'au would gradually disappear.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly. This single step had set us on a path that would change the course of history.

But technology alone was not enough.

With my personal advancements secured, my thoughts turned to the future of our people.

The humans of this universe were still in their early atomic age. They were advancing, but they had not yet stepped beyond their own world. The question was not if we would reveal ourselves, but when.

I had to choose the right moment. Too early, and we risked destabilizing their natural development. Too late, and we would find ourselves reacting rather than shaping the course of events.

After much deliberation, I reached a conclusion.

1989

By then, the world would be at a crossroads. The United States would still be strong, the dominant power on Earth. The Soviet Union would be weakening, its leadership desperately trying to hold its crumbling system together. China would be uncertain, experimenting with economic reforms while still recovering from past mistakes.

A world filled with ambition. With fear. With hope.

The perfect moment, we could make contact with a humanity that still saw the future as something to be embraced, not feared. A world on the brink of transformation, but before paranoia or stagnation took root. If we approached carefully, we could position ourselves not as conquerors, nor as saviors, but as equals—offering knowledge, not domination.

The T'au would not arrive as a force of occupation. We would not impose our will. We would guide.

And with that decision, our path was set.

The countdown to first contact had begun.