The cursed dust of Evil Land, a place that scoffs at hope and strangles life, has become the perfect crucible for these strange, ambitious powers. The very ground, which can turn bone to dust and reanimate it in the same breath, is a stage for a war unlike any other.
The Galactic Empire's arrival was met not with fear, but with a horrifying curiosity. Governor Varis's first act was to establish a perimeter around a crater that once held a city—a strategic position due to its high concentration of salvageable metal. However, this territory was the hunting ground of King T'sar.
The first skirmish wasn't a battle, but a logistical nightmare. The Empire's probe droids and Stormtroopers, ordered to reclaim the ruins, found their databanks corrupted by malevolent rain and their energy weapons flickering in the oppressive air. Then, the Sorcerer-King's forces emerged: not a unified army, but legions of slaves, hulking ogres, and grotesquely mutated creatures marching from the desert. T'sar himself, a figure of bone and obsidian, simply watched from a high dune, siphoning life from the land with every step, turning the ground to salt and dust.
The Empire responded with brute force, deploying AT-ST walkers and TIE Fighters. But the Sorcerer-Kings weren't fighting for territory; they were fighting to feed. King Draya, the Blight Mother, cast a ritual that twisted the very bones of the fallen Stormtroopers and Ogres into a skeletal legion that attacked both sides. The Empire, which prides itself on logic and order, was faced with an enemy that embodied irrational chaos, drawing strength from the very despair and decay they sought to conquer. The war quickly devolved into a series of small, desperate skirmishes for specific power points, with the land itself as the ultimate weapon of the Sorcerer-Kings.
In the blasted heart of Evil Land, an unlikely and silent conflict has emerged. Jon Irenicus, operating from a network of ancient catacombs, is obsessed with the land's reanimating properties. He believes the "dark energy" that infests the air is a key to achieving the divinity he craves. His agents—a mix of enthralled scavengers and dark paladins—capture both the living and the undead, dragging them back to his twisted laboratories for experimentation.
But he is not alone. A single Borg Cube, its outer shell scorched and scarred from its interdimensional journey, has landed nearby. It is completely indifferent to the planet's corruption. To the Borg, the blight, the curses, and the reanimating dead are just new data points to be assimilated.
The conflict between them is a silent race. The Borg sends out drones, not for battle, but for information. They attempt to assimilate the local flora, the reanimated undead, and even the bizarre weather, logging every curse and mutation. Irenicus, in turn, sees the Borg as a threat and an opportunity. He fears their relentless, emotionless advance, but he also lusts after the sheer technological complexity of their nanites and cybernetics. He has sent his thralls to discreetly attack and capture a few drones, hoping to unlock the secrets of their seamless "perfection" to enhance his own ascent. For its part, the Borg is a patient predator, slowly but surely mapping Irenicus's lair, its sub-routines running countless scenarios for how best to assimilate his "emotional but powerful" consciousness.
The Principality of Zeon and the remnants of Lemuria have a history, though neither side knows it. Zeon's mobile suits, piloted by the fanatical Zabi Restorationists, see the arid wasteland as a challenge. They have built a mobile base, the Titan, a repurposed mining vehicle, and use it to scour the desert for resources. They consider themselves the new nobility, born to rule this hellscape.
On the other side, Lemuria, which existed in a hidden, sub-surface sanctuary long before the apocalypse, now faces an existential threat. The defiling machines and the blaring arrogance of Zeon's mobile suits are a direct violation of their sacred mission to heal the planet. The Lemurians, led by their Oracle, view Zeon's actions as a new, more horrifying version of the "Old World's" self-destructive greed.
The conflict is a cold war of sabotage and covert strikes. Zeon's mobile suits will be crippled by strange psionic "ghosts" that fry their targeting systems, only to find no enemy. Their fuel supplies will vanish in the night, only to reappear as pure water in a dry gulch miles away. Lemurians will not engage in open battle; instead, they will wage a silent, invisible war of attrition, slowly turning Zeon's glorious military into a collection of frustrated mechanics and broken machines. Their ultimate goal is not to destroy Zeon, but to make this land so unviable for their kind that they are forced to leave. They will show them that the new world, even a cursed one, will not tolerate the sins of the past.
The inevitable happened when the Sorcerer-King, Dictator Haman, driven by his insatiable lust for expansion and new slave legions, clashed with an Imperial patrol. The Empire's disciplined use of heavy armor nearly crushed Haman’s slave legions, but Haman's desperate use of defiling magic blighted the land so intensely that the Stormtroopers’ helmets and armor began to corrode and fall apart.
Haman’s retreat led him straight toward the catacombs of Jon Irenicus. Seeing a perfect opportunity for mutual benefit, Irenicus, through his enthralled Emissary, Raij, offered Haman a deal: Irenicus would provide sophisticated tactical advice and enhanced, mutated shock troops—creatures fused with scavenged Old World technology and the dark power of Evil Land. In exchange, Haman would provide Irenicus with a constant supply of powerful new souls harvested from the endless slave legions, as well as access to the Sorcerer-Kings’ unique defiling magic, which Irenicus theorized was a form of latent divinity.
The immediate goal of this unholy alliance: to combine Irenicus’s precise, dark manipulation with the Sorcerer-Kings’ raw, soul-siphoning power to utterly destroy Moff Varis's Loyalists and seize the valuable Imperial hub. The alliance’s existence is a testament to the fact that in Evil Land, the pursuit of power makes the most terrifying bedfellows.
The Principality of Zeon, under the demanding Garma Zabi Jr., finally cracked under the relentless, invisible pressure applied by Lemuria. After a Mobile Suit squadron was disabled by a targeted psychic burst that forced the pilots into a waking nightmare, Zabi ordered a full, retaliatory sweep. He found only empty sands, further fueling the Mobile Suit Front's rage.
The true enemy arrived later: a silent wave of Borg nanite-infused undead, reanimated by the local curse but now integrated into the Collective. The Borg, having assimilated the concepts of the local blight and reanimation, had begun using the planet's own power to their advantage.
The resulting battle was a horrifying spectacle of technological mismatch. Zeon’s Mobile Suits were fast, powerful, and maneuverable, their massive beam rifles tearing through the undead hordes. But every drone that fell was merely scanned and analyzed. Every blast of energy taught the Borg more about Zeon’s shields and power consumption. When a Borg assimilation team finally reached a disabled Mobile Suit, the highly protected Zeon pilot could only watch in horror as nanites began to chew through the armor. The Borg's chilling objective was not to destroy the Mobile Suit, but to assimilate the Mobile Suit's operational data and the pilot's tactical mind into the Collective's vast database.
Commander Ramba, leading the charge, realized this was not a war of territory, but a fight for the very essence of Zeon's technological superiority. For the first time, the fierce Zeon soldiers felt a terror colder than space—the fear of becoming obsolete, of having their pride and skill absorbed and made perfect by a nameless enemy.
Deep beneath the poisonous sea that borders Evil Land, High Elder Kaelen received a grim psychic report. The Sorcerer-Kings, empowered by Irenicus, were about to inflict a wound on the land that not even Lemuria could fully heal. The Tier of Preservation was forced to confront the impossible: their policy of absolute non-intervention was jeopardizing their core mission of planetary health.
Commander Rylos, leader of the Tier of Intervention, argued for direct action. "The surface breeds its own infection," she broadcasted psionically to the Council. "We must neutralize the Sorcerer-Kings and the Warlord (Zeon) before the Empire's structure falls entirely, for their Loyalists are the only group with the material capability to contain the chaos. A controlled order, however crude, is better than this blight."
The Council's decision was agonizing: Lemuria would dedicate a fraction of its immense psychic energy, not to fighting, but to empowering the surviving Imperial Faction. They would subtly manipulate Moff Varis's tactical data, shield their vital supply lines from the worst of the curses, and whisper battle plans into the ears of Imperial commanders—all in the hope that the cold, methodical order of the Empire could serve as a blunt instrument to break the supernatural alliances of corruption that threatened to consume Evil Land entirely. They traded a small stain of political compromise for the chance to save the whole.