Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 938 (08.937): "Living Towards Death"

As Thee's fingers danced across the rune keys of the old operating system, Commander Horatio was performing a cold, posthumous sacrament.

Although Horatio was not a member of the Mechanicus, Latti equipped him with a portable ritual device that met the Mechanicus' requirements.

A mechanical dendrite, shimmering with a faint light, was protruding from the interface at his fingertips.

It precisely connected to the port behind the skull of the fallen technology priest, where the flesh and blood had grown cold, but the last echoes of divine data still lingered in the nerve tissue.

With a low hum, the dendrites were injected with weak bioelectricity, stimulating the cooling brain tissue and extracting its last memories—valuable information about terrain structure and system permissions—like physical objects.

This is not blasphemy, but a supreme form of preservation. In their shared dogma, flesh and blood will eventually decay, but data is eternal.

The servo skull hovering beside Horatio began to function.

This meticulously polished human skull, inlaid with brass and copper ornaments, has a scarlet optical lens gleaming in its eye socket.

It receives the raw, fragmented data stream flowing from the dendrites, and its internal cognitive machine quickly transforms it into tactical runes and structural diagrams that are as clear and readable as possible. Then, like a whisper of light, it is projected directly onto the control panel in front of They, interpreting how the equipment works.

Meanwhile, Horatio's consciousness was also racing with another, more pressing task.

His gaze was fixed on the command sand table in his mind. It accurately reproduced the battlefield below, which was fifteen kilometers long and thirty kilometers wide.

The blue Imperial Eagle icon representing our forces flickers like a candle in the wind, while the Greenskins are represented by countless blood-red, jagged tribal runes.

That red expanse, like an ever-expanding, living sea of ​​blood, was relentlessly devouring the blue specks of light.

The harsh reality of close-quarters combat is portrayed on the altar as the fierce clash of icons and their continuous extinguishing.

"Omega Squadron, execute a feint attack and then retreat, target 7-Gamma Corridor."

Lure their vanguard into the slaughter zone of 'Square of the Dead'.

Delta Squadron, provide suppressive fire from the residential area's spire. Horatio's voice, transmitted through the hand of the commander, became a series of orders, precisely reaching every crew and every unit.

His brain was operating at a speed beyond what a mortal body could withstand.

This multi-threaded work style gave him a terrible sense of alienation from the material universe, as if his flesh and blood body was merely a container for a highly efficient logic engine, and his mind was filled with a kind of weariness that was about to slide into a soulless servant state.

"Tey, how's the cracking progress?" Horatio's tone was heavy and weary.

His dragoons, without the support of heavy armor, were fighting with their bare hands against the Greenskins' various stolen vehicles, including the Leman Rustank, and heavily armed trucks.

The advantage of mechanized mobile forces lies in speed and precision, but this advantage appears so fragile in the face of the Greenskins' unreasonable heavy armor and endless numbers.

They can only swarm like mosquitoes, swatting and running away among the ruins of buildings, using hit-and-run tactics to gain space for survival.

The Greenskins were like an incurable plague. Horatio may have enjoyed real-time strategy games in simulators, but when the pieces under his command were living soldiers, every command was related to their lives, and every mistake could trigger a chain reaction of collapse, this "game" that kept the commander under constant pressure of total annihilation was utterly devoid of enjoyment.

The disadvantage in troop strength and equipment made every second feel incredibly long.

This mechanized cavalry unit certainly possessed a strong fighting spirit, but flesh and blood are ultimately no match for armor. The situation was no longer just critical, but on the verge of collapse.

If only... there were tanks...

“I’ve discovered it!” Tei’s voice broke the suffocating silence in the command post. Her face was reflected in the eerie green light of the control panel. “For every four adjacent surface tectonic plates, after one is lowered, the space gap created can be used to relocate the other three.”

In other words, I could try to make the ground beneath the feet of those endless streams of green-skinned troops rushing towards the energy center move backward, like making them run on a conveyor belt moving in reverse!

"Quickly! They, slow down the Greenskins by everything!" Horatio's voice was firm and resolute. "The soldiers are about to give out. Delay their arrival at all costs!"

“No problem.” Having grasped the basics of how to use this ancient device, Tei placed his hands back on the control panel, his eyes shining with focused attention.
-
Battalion Commander Poniatovsky felt that the green-skinned orcs were everywhere, constantly encroaching on their living space, and finding a safe path to move was becoming increasingly difficult.

The thunderous sound of hooves beneath him created a destructive symphony, echoing through the narrow urban canyon, but it couldn't drown out the even louder and more deafening engine roar and "Waaagh" sounds behind him.

He had no choice but to charge forward, relentlessly following the tactical shadows constantly updating on his retina—those gleaming arrows and paths cast by Horatio from a godlike perspective.

"Quick! This way!!" He pointed his power saber forward, and the energy field flowing on the blade drew a dazzling blue arc of electricity in the dimly lit corridor.

At the corner of the building's corridor, a group of green-skinned boys wielding huge machetes charged out, howling.

The dragoons following the battalion commander moved as one, instantly turning on their horses. Their modified warhorses bulged with muscles and turned precisely to the side, allowing the riders to raise their hellfire lances and fire.

The intersecting crimson laser beams instantly tore through the air, and the scorching beams blasted the green-skinned bodies into clumps of charred remains and minced meat, emitting foul fumes.

The few surviving green-skinned soldiers were also cut down one after another by the cavalry that rushed past them.

The battle ended in the blink of an eye.

Just then, the tactical shadow in the battalion commander's eyes suddenly turned sharply, pointing to a narrow alley that was almost impossible to pass through.

"Turn!"

Without the slightest hesitation, the entire dragoon squadron turned around instantly.

The iron hooves of warhorses clanged sparks across the broken concrete. Poniatovsky, positioned on the outer edge of the column, deliberately slowed down, allowing the inner cavalry to pass first, while he brought up the rear. Just as he was about to charge into the alley, he caught a glimpse of an apocalyptic scene out of the corner of his eye—a thick iron wall had been smashed down, rubble and steel bars raining down, and a colossal vehicle had crushed through the ruins and entered.

That was a green-skinned battle fortress.

It is built on a heavy-duty truck chassis, stands about eight meters tall, and its body is haphazardly welded together from countless rusty armor plates, covered with spikes and trophy skulls.

The vehicle was covered with layers upon layers of turrets and weapon stations, each one spitting fire wildly. Countless tracer rounds blasted the surrounding building walls, sending sparks flying. It looked like an enraged, constantly firing steel hedgehog.

The brilliance of the tactical plan became apparent as the cavalry charged out of the alley.

They were positioned directly behind the heavily armed truck, which had just entered the energy hub and was about to turn—its most vulnerable spot.

(End of this chapter)