Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 920, 08.919: 'Frontline Commander'

From her stealth skills that almost blend into her environment to her calm and collected shooting with every breath, it is undeniable that this young girl is a natural-born marksman.

Her petite figure was hidden in a deep shadow high in the monastery, almost indistinguishable from the war-torn ruins around her.

Perhaps noticing Horatio's gaze, the girl looked away from behind the scope.

Her icy gaze pierced through the cracks in the collapsed roof, locking precisely onto the power armored giant staring at her.

The imposing figure of Tao Gang, clad in fine gold armor, stood out prominently in the light and shadow cast by the shattered dome.

Her gaze swept quickly over the optical sensors on his helmet and the double-headed eagle insignia on his chest. After confirming that he was a friendly force, she disappeared back into the shadows like a ghost.

Deadly firepower erupted once more, each crimson laser beam carrying the determination to reap lives, precisely aimed at the green-skinned people who were surging in like a tide from the collapsed courtyard wall.

"This military reform has also brought about some changes among those stubborn conservatives."

The colonel's gaze fell on the petite figure upstairs, whose deadly flashes were constantly going off, and she explained to Horatio, "She is the 'commandant de bataillon' of the 17th Flintlock Regiment, the 10th Leaping Battalion."

She was much younger than me, probably in her early twenties. When I was a captain in the elite corps, she was just a junior officer.

She paused, organizing her thoughts to make this distinguished guest from the Imperial Navy understand the complex internal affairs of the planet.

"The conservatives of Sintira have always recruited soldiers from their colony of Polaberia—a former world of knights, now meaning 'new land' in Sintira. They select those of old noble blood from the descendants of the local colonists and entrust them with important officer duties."

“You’ve actually forced the conservatives of Sintira to become ‘enlightened’,” Horatio said, silently processing the information in his mind. At the same time, his power armor system was in full combat readiness, and the deep hum of the energy core transmitted to his senses through his bones.

"Because the manpower shortage caused by the previous suppression of the rebellion was too great, even the conservatives had to be forced to relax the conscription standards. They allowed wealthy propertied citizens to join the flintlock regiments, provided that they provided their own uniforms, weapons and supplies."

The colonel's tone carried a hint of sarcasm, "But in the previous riots, even propertied citizens had completely lost trust in those nobles. At the same time, the conservative nobles of Sintira would never sit idly by while these propertied commoners elected officers to represent their own class."

However, if they were forcibly assigned, the new recruits from the propertied classes would clash with the less experienced aristocratic officers, resulting in a disorganized and ineffective fighting force.

Thus, the current compromise appointment method came into being: conservative nobles would draft a list of candidates they approved, and then the soldiers would select the person they considered most suitable as their commander from this list.

The rank of 'battalion commander' (commandant de bataillon, literally translated from French as 'frontline commander') is equivalent to lieutenant colonel. This is the new military system adopted by both flintlock regiments and reformed units after our military reform, replacing the original lieutenant colonel deputy regimental commander position that was paid without working.

Now, the battalion commander is responsible for independently commanding a combat unit, directing operations along a section of the front, and implementing the specific orders of the brigadier general (brigadier general).

At this point, Horatio realized why the female colonel had referred to the runaway lieutenant as a "little lieutenant citizen" and used the word "recommendation," which seemed out of place in the strict hierarchical system of the Star Guardians.

"Colonel Citizen!" a cavalryman rushed up. "We've found Battalion Commander Poniatovsky, Citizen, and our arrested compatriots!"

Where are he and his men?

"It's in the monastery's solitary confinement room."
-
Fifty meters below the main building of the monastery, buried deep beneath the cellar warehouse, lies a dark and desolate place, untouched even by the intense roar of artillery fire on the surface.

The air was cold and damp, filled with a mixture of smells of mold, sweat, and despair.

Hundreds of soldiers were imprisoned in a dozen small, cramped cells.

Their uniforms were filthy, old, and wrinkled, and smelled nauseatingly musty.

No one but themselves knew why they were being held captive here. They sat or lay on damp haystacks, dejected and silent. The entire space was shrouded in a suffocating stillness, except from cell number 3, where angry roars and violent kicking of the door could be heard from time to time, like the howls of trapped beasts. "Let me out! You damned bastards! Why are you only arresting us? It was those flintlock musketeers, those aristocratic thugs who started it! Open the door! Thump! Thump!" A man's voice was hoarse from exhaustion as he frantically pounded on the heavy steel door with his shoulder and boots, producing dull, violent thuds.

Just as he slammed it again, his efforts seemed to work—the door groaned and began to shake!
boom! Click!

With a deafening, metal-tearing crash, the heavy lock was violently ripped off from the outside and fell to the ground. The bolt on the outside of the iron gate was suddenly pulled open.

Then, in the eyes of the bewildered and ecstatic man, appeared a tall and incredibly powerful power armor warrior.

His imposing figure, covered in mysterious armor, resembled a war god from ancient mythology, standing majestically in front of the door, almost blocking the entire doorway and shutting out all the light.

Horatio was also sizing him up.

The cavalry uniform that the man in front of him was wearing, which should have been gorgeous and elaborate, looked slovenly at the moment, covered with dry grass and bits of straw from the damp haystack in the solitary confinement cell.

He had long, brown hair that was disheveled and messy. A swollen, purplish-blue fist mark was clearly visible on his face, and there was a crack at the corner of his mouth with dried blood remaining.

His stubble was uneven from lack of trimming, and his mustache was scattered haphazardly, making him look less like a soldier and more like a decadent 30-year-old unemployed bum who spent his days leaning against a bottle of liquor.

Horatio stepped aside, and the servo motor emitted a slight hum.

A tall female cavalry officer appeared before the man, her eyebrows furrowed and her expression stern.

“Commander Poniatovsky, I heard you were arrested for organizing a brawl.” The female colonel’s tone was as stern as a block of cold iron. “I remember repeatedly telling you not to get into a conflict with the flintlock regiment.”

"Colonel, citizen! I must defend myself!" He subconsciously straightened his tattered uniform, puffed out his chest, and said indignantly, "They attacked first, we were just acting in self-defense!"
After delivering the letter to Major General Leclerc, it was already night, so I arranged for the dragoon brothers to stay overnight at the flintlock regiment's camp. Then, a group of drunken bastards came to our camp to cause trouble, even assaulting our guards! The guards' repeated forbearance only resulted in their increasingly cruel and bullying behavior!

He looked down at the bloodstains on his jacket, his voice filled with barely suppressed anger, and said in a deep voice, "But I admit that we were the ones who started the fight. Because one of our guards... was beaten to death in the brawl, we were forced to fight back."

"Who died?" The colonel's voice suddenly rose, trembling slightly. She took a step forward, staring intently at him, and asked, enunciating each word clearly, "I'm asking you, who! died?!"

“Matthew Antoine, Colonel, citizen. He is the son of the gardener of your ancestral manor.”

Poniatovsky's voice lowered. "He had only recently joined the Dragoon Regiment, and that night, he was on watch. When those 'old-timers' came to cause trouble, he was too honest and didn't even cry for help when he was surrounded and beaten. So he was surrounded by those drunkards and punched and kicked... When we found him on the grass next to the camp, his face was a bloody mess, and on his head, there was a hideous gash that had been smashed open by the butt of his rifle, so deep that the bone was visible."

A ferocious rage instantly flashed across the female colonel's face, and her pupils suddenly contracted, transforming into a long, narrow horizontal pupil like a wild horse in the center of her eyes.

Her hands unconsciously clenched into fists, her knuckles turning pale from the excessive force.

But she quickly suppressed her anger, her clenched teeth making a grinding sound—her comrades-in-arms, who fought alongside her to defend their country, not only failed to die a glorious death, but were instead beaten to death in a humiliating manner by scoundrels among their own people. No one could remain calm in such a situation.

“Now is not the time to hold the perpetrator accountable; we have more important tasks. Organize your cavalry squadron.” Her voice was hoarse, as if each word was being squeezed out with great difficulty from the depths of her throat.

"What's wrong?" the man asked, puzzled, looking at the female colonel's solemn and sorrowful expression.

"The Greenskins have fully invaded this planet."

Major General Leclerc and all the staff officers of the front command have heroically sacrificed their lives.

The flintlock regiment guarding the monastery command post also suffered heavy casualties, and the void passage has been severed. Now, the monastery has become a bloody battlefield; you must immediately take your men and join the fight.”

(End of this chapter)