Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 836, 08.835: 'The Sheepdog is Attacked'

As the RX-0371 escort fleet departed the last glimmer of light from the star system and headed towards the boundless darkness of the abyss, a meticulously woven nightmare descended upon them.

This was Horatio's first escort command operation, and undoubtedly the most mentally taxing and mind-testing voyage in his three years in this world.

The fleet's route extended to the edge of the empire's territory, where the void was no longer a picture scroll occasionally shimmering with nebula dust, but a pure, oppressive darkness.

The view outside the bridge's main observation window was maddeningly monotonous, with only the cold, indifferent glow of distant stars, like the last glimmer of light in the eyes of a dying man.

At this moment, Horatio dared not leave his command throne for even a moment.

This throne, made of cold steel and intricate wiring, is both a symbol of the captain's power, which holds the life and death of the entire ship in his hands, and at this moment, it is like an invisible cage.

Every time he tried to relax for a moment, his nerves would tighten again with the ghostly warnings of the Ducali pirates' attack or other suspicious divination array signals.

His mind was repeatedly pulled between extreme tension and brief relaxation, in a cycle so intense that the thick cable connecting the nerve plug in the back of his neck began to get slightly warm.

Even so, he could only rely on his extraordinary perseverance to seize the brief respite after each alarm.

He has been on the command throne for 120 consecutive hours, connected to the central control system of the flagship "Swift Eagle" through a neural interface.

His consciousness extended to every corner of the warship, feeling the pulse of the engines and listening to the breathing of the life support system. This cold, steel behemoth seemed to become an extension of his weary body.

Whenever a false alarm passes and the communication channels fall silent again, just when people think they can finally get through this period of peace, a transport ship or frigate in the fleet will be attacked.

A fiery red distress flare would tear through the darkness, howling like a bleeding wound on the wide-area communication screen.

The signal is the command.

The escort fleet's "guard dogs" must respond immediately, being dispatched from the main fleet to rush to the attack site to provide support.

However, not every attack was a real attack.

Most of these were feints by the cunning Ducale pirates, designed to relentlessly drain their already exhausted prey.

The repeated, piercing wailing of the highest-level combat alarm was like a dull knife cutting flesh, numbing the nerves of every crew member on the bridge.

The escort process was equally perilous.

These raiders from Comoros deliberately set a trap, attempting to "surround the dead and ambush reinforcements."

Initially, they forged distress signals from other merchant ships—the communication equipment was salvaged from ships they had captured and, after modification, could perfectly mimic the identification codes of Imperial merchant ships.

However, Horatio, with the caution of a seasoned commerce raiding commander, halted all attempts to deviate from the course and respond to distress calls.

He issued encrypted fleet orders, strictly commanding all ships to focus on their immediate escort mission and not to cause any unforeseen complications.

He knew that even if other merchant ships were attacked in the vicinity, the mission of the RX-0371 escort fleet was only one: to ensure that the fleet reached its destination.

Losing sight of the bigger picture is a mistake only a novice makes, and he can't afford the cost of failure.

As a master of torture and abuse, Ducalli was adept at dismantling human defenses psychologically and took pleasure in it, utterly destroying the minds of his prey.

After the fake distress signal has been going on for a while, it will suddenly turn into a piercing wail that will echo through the fleet's public channel.

Painful screams and dying groans, accompanied by twisted and terrifying laughter and eerie whispers of the Eldar, tormented the minds of every crew member like maggots clinging to their bones.

However, the fleet cannot shut down its communication channels; otherwise, if other ships in the convoy are attacked, the escort ships will become deaf and miss the best opportunity for rescue, which would be an irreparable dereliction of duty.

The incessant sounds of pain nearly overwhelmed the communications staff on duty on every warship.

The officers had to temporarily borrow personnel from other departments, such as the weapons deck and even the engine room. They implemented a strict shift system, with each shift lasting three hours. Those who were rotated out were forced to go to the open recreation room or meditation hall to empty their minds with deafening hymns or silent meditation in order to find a moment of peace.

Despite these targeted measures, suicides still occurred on some warships.

A young lieutenant on the "Salokhan Lion" wrote in blood on the wall of his break room, "Everyone will die, including me," before ending his young life, consumed by fear, with a revolver pistol he had shoved in his mouth.

Another bizarre and terrifying accident is shaking people's will like a plague.

Perhaps due to prolonged exposure to these negative voices, a persistent cognitive impairment, a kind of mental "brain fog," began to spread among the crew members.

A seasoned officer—a lieutenant who had served on the ship since Horatio's father, Thomas Cochrane, was in command—misstepped on his way to the officers' mess hall every day due to a moment of distraction.

Amidst the terrified cries of the praying crew below, he tumbled from the high bridge railing, his body piercing the sharp stone sword of a death angel sculpture in the atrium. Blood flowed straight down the magnificent sculpted sword.
This horrific death, resembling that of a sacrifice, quickly sparked rumors and gossip on the "Swift Skyhawk" warship.

Some claimed it was the work of an alien assassin, and everyone was gripped by fear.

Any fleeting shadow in a dark corner is taken as evidence of alien infiltration.

Fear fermented within the confined cabin, spreading faster than any virus.

Horatio was forced to send the ship's military supervisors to lead security forces on more intensive patrols, and to entrust Consort Diana and Sister Arabella of the Sisters of the Cleans to strengthen sermons and spiritual counseling in order to reinforce the crew's faltering psychological defenses.

However, the result of this was that everyone's work pressure increased, their mental state became more and more dazed, and the entire fleet was shrouded in an invisible gloom.

Horatio closed his eyes, trying to shut out the air on the bridge that was a mixture of sweat, ozone, and fear.

Perhaps it was because he was too exhausted, after all, he had not closed his eyes for five consecutive days, a total of 120 hours.

Normally, even a Space Marine would find it difficult to sustain such intense mental activity for so long.

As a mortal, he had long surpassed the limits of human physiology. Although Lati's enhancement surgery made him doubt whether he could still be considered a "mortal," he also began to experience hallucinations.

The steel dome of the bridge and the flashing tactical screens melted away before his eyes.

He was no longer on the magnificent warship, but standing atop the dome of a high mountain.

A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and an eagle circled overhead, emitting a long and resounding cry.

The sky was such a clear, azure blue, with large, fluffy white clouds floating by, a sight that filled one with longing.

He spread his arms and fell backward, lying on the soft grass. A gentle breeze caressed his face, and his consciousness began to drift away, wandering to that carefree distance.

"captain!"

An urgent voice, like a steel needle, pierced his illusion.

Horatio suddenly opened his eyes, and the azure sky in his vision was instantly replaced by the green light of the cold tactical display console on the bridge.

He gasped for breath, his consciousness returning to the harsh reality once more, following his gaze.

"What's wrong, Archie? Another attack?" he asked hoarsely, his voice dry from lack of water.

“Yes, Captain. But…” Archie’s voice carried a hint of sorrow, “this time, it’s our warship.”

"What?" Horatio abruptly rose from his command throne, the movement so sudden that it made the neural connections taut.

"It's the 'Sword of Akali' scimitar-class escort ship. She was hit by an alien torpedo while rescuing an attacked merchant ship. Captain, she's on fire right now!" Archie's voice echoed in the deathly silent bridge, each word like a heavy hammer blow to Horatio's heart.

(End of this chapter)