Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 956, page 08.955: "Armed Protest"

"Punish the murderer severely! Punish the murderer severely!"

This cry did not begin with words, but rather originated from a low, suppressed resonance that seemed to emanate from the depths of the chest.

Hundreds and thousands of roars from the throats converged into a deafening sonic boom, crashing against the ruins of the monastery and making the smoggy air tremble.

Then, a clear demand emerged from this primal roar, each word imbued with grief, indignation, and an iron will.

The new dragon riders of the Second Battalion did not turn into a chaotic mob; on the contrary, they formed an unbreakable steel formation with a chilling discipline.

They proved themselves to be seasoned professional soldiers through their actions and discipline, and even when they suffered unprecedented injustice, they still adhered to their duties.

Their controlled anger, amplified by their disciplined formation, was far more deadly than the rage of a mob.

Beneath each dragoon helmet was a face taut with suppressed rage, and in each pair of eyes burned the flames of vengeance, a thirst for justice.

The laser carbines in their hands were not raised; the muzzles were pointed diagonally downwards, maintaining a low-key but potentially deadly posture.

This was to prove that it was not a mutiny, but a legitimate armed protest that was clearly distinct from it, a denunciation of internal injustice, and the most severe indictment of the dysfunction of the Sintira command system.

In stark contrast to this disciplined human wall were the Sintira flintlock musketeers, who were gripped by extreme panic.

Their ranks had long since fallen apart, with soldiers huddled together in twos and threes, their formation scattered, and confusion and panic appearing on their bewildered faces.

Fear, like a pungent smell of cold sweat, mingled with the air thick with the scorched earth and gunpowder smoke.

A young soldier's eyes were wide open, his lips were pale with tension, and his knuckles, gripping the laser gun tightly, were bloodless.

His noble colleagues around him kept swallowing hard, their eyes darting around, unable to look directly at the silent and oppressive formation opposite them.

Faced with overwhelming numbers and sheer force, any thought of resistance seemed utterly futile.

On the ruins of the factory wall, half of which had been sheared off by artillery fire, several figures were looking down at the tense standoff that was about to erupt.

Military supervisor Farida, wearing her signature platinum trench coat, fluttered in the dust and turbidity above the ruins.

She and her colleagues, like ravens perched on corpses, silently watched the eye of the storm.

Farida's hand was casually resting on her waist, but her thumb, pressed against the bolt-action bolt of the bolt pistol, betrayed her concern about the internal strife.

The other committee members behind her, like extensions of her will, had stern faces and eyes that flashed with the same cold light, ready to enforce iron-fisted discipline at any moment.

Her gaze swept over the commotion below and landed on the top of a "Pegasus" wheeled chariot not far away.

Horatio stood at the hatch of the control tower, calmly observing every subtle change in the situation.

Unlike Farida, he did not rush to intervene, but calmly observed the changing situation.

Their gazes met in the air, and Farida's emerald eyes seemed to ask: Should we take strong measures to maintain military discipline?
Horatio's response was merely a barely perceptible shake of his head.

This slight movement carries undeniable weight.

This is not a suggestion, but a strategic rejection.

He knew that Sintira was currently in a complex political game, and he only had one chance to bet.

His grand plan—to build an elite amphibious landing force under the navy in this location—depended entirely on whether he could bet on the winning side.

Supporting a faction on the verge of collapse, or prematurely intervening in an internal conflict that is not his own, could cause his long-held dream of establishing an independent naval railborne landing force to die before it even begins.

Farida's lips pressed into a stiff line. As a member of the military oversight committee, she had always despised this kind of political maneuvering, because according to the standards of the military oversight committee—dereliction of duty, demonstration, and incompetence were essentially the same.

Any act that delays the performance of duties should be dealt with promptly and decisively, and then used as a warning to others.

But she understood the stakes involved and knew what Horatio's position was concerned about.

Finally, she raised her hand and made a simple yet powerful gesture, stopping her colleagues behind her who were also eager to try.

The order was conveyed and carried out silently, but the tension in the air only intensified because of this restraint.

The dragoons seem to intend to seek 'outcome justice' themselves, even if the process is not recognized.

"What's going on? Loyal patriotic soldiers!"

Just as they were about to make the arrests, and the situation seemed to escalate to the point of accidental conflict, an old but unusually loud voice broke through the clamor of protests, like a heavy hammer striking everyone's nerves.

The voice contained a seasoned and weathered authority, suppressing the noise of the scene instantly, not through volume but through its inherent power.

Everyone, whether they were angry dragoons, terrified flintlock musketeers, or even military supervisors on the high walls and naval commanders in their chariots, couldn't help but look in the direction of the sound.

At the edge of the horizon, a magnificent and classically elegant scroll is slowly unfolding.

A blinding reflection first appeared on the monastery's wide stone-paved walkway, like a row of moving mirrors.

Immediately afterwards, the beam of light expanded into a shimmering silver wall, and accompanied by the thunderous sound of hundreds of horses' hooves shattering rubble, it steadily advanced towards the center of the chaos.

It was a Sintira Guards Carbin cavalry unit with a formation as disciplined as a textbook.

The warhorses they rode were genetically modified giant military horses, with high shoulders, broad bodies, and bulging muscles.

Each cavalryman wore gleaming copper-plated breastplates and helmets that reflected a cold gleam in the dim light of the sandstorm.

At the very forefront of this torrent of gold and silver, an old general sat proudly on horseback.

Time has etched deep lines on his face, but it has not diminished his majesty in the slightest. On the contrary, it is like adding countless battle marks to a legendary blade, making him even more steadfast with age.

Although his armor was magnificent, it was covered with tiny scars from battles, and countless pure marks and medals of merit were layered on his chest, proclaiming his legendary resume.

He was Étienne de Nanssutti, the commander-in-chief of the Third Cavalry Corps. A living legend in the Sintira military.

Horatio recalled the information on senior officers he had reviewed before arriving, and he had some knowledge of this man's resume.

He recalled that this veteran had served as commander of the Spinward Front for fifty years during the first half of his long military career.

During that half-century, although the battles on the Whirlwind Line were fierce and chaotic, the front remained stable, and not an inch of the core world of the Calissis Starfield was lost.

From a commander's perspective, Nansutti was undoubtedly one of the Empire's most competent generals.

A thought flashed through Horatio's mind, carrying a hint of sarcasm and a precise political insight.

[Perhaps his successors were so incompetent that the number of lost territories became so great that even this retired general could no longer bear it, forcing the Third Guards Cavalry to intervene in such a near-mutiny manner.]
The arrival of this golden torrent is itself a strong political signal.

It signifies that the old power system, based on personal prestige and feudal loyalty, has lost patience with the current incompetent bureaucratic command structure.

Some people are trying to set things right and get everything back on track.

(End of this chapter)