Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 186 The Cyber ​​War (3)

In the fifth week since the Emperor's manifestation, the cold psychic light of Karasta continued to pulsate beneath the Bone Dome. Initially, the Imperium was clearing the ruins infested with demons, but as reinforcements poured in and the battle lines expanded, the battlefield escalated from sporadic skirmishes to large-scale legion clashes—the Imperium's enemies had reacted and were pouring power into the rift. The repair of the Webway continued, progressing segment by segment, under Cohen's supervision. The Imperium was sending the galaxy's most elite legions into this rift. The storm edges on the outer edge of the solar system still churned, but their density had ceased to rise—perhaps because the Emperor's psychic power had intensified, or perhaps because the Four Gods were concentrating their power on the Webway's rift, preparing to crush the Emperor's counterattack in one fell swoop.

The Emperor's interstellar broadcast had pierced the edge of the storm. The mobilization of the Solar System had entered its fifth week, with countless Astral Army transport ships pouring in from the direction of Mandeville Point, crossing Pluto's orbit, and, guided by the Ministry of Military Affairs' fleet, entering the Hessonic Gate, which had been transformed into a netgate. Almost all available forces within the Solar System had been mobilized, and they were on their way.

At the Lionsgate Spaceport on Terra, a grey-white column of soldiers stood in formation on the gangway of a Galactic-class transport ship, awaiting disembarkation. The Emperor himself had granted permission for this honorary vanguard to traverse the Royal Palace's network of tunnels into Karasta, a privilege accorded to the Krieg Death Legion. The Emperor had never forgotten the Krieg's blood-written loyalty. Tens of thousands of elite soldiers, selected from the entire Krieg mobilization, would, for the first time in centuries, walk before the Emperor, passing under his gaze, into the network.

On the cargo deck, the entire legion stood in formation. There were no cheers, no flags. The gas mask canisters hissed rhythmically in the circulating air, and the soles of their boots formed a precise geometric grid. Their faces were obscured by masks, and one eye behind a lens gleamed silently in the dim light. They had been sailing for weeks. The turbulence of the storm, the distortion of time...

The fluctuations of the Geller force field were all absorbed by the same silence. They knew the order: Proceed to Terra. Enter the Webpath. Fight to the death.

The greyish-white ranks poured out of the gangway, spreading out in the lights. The sound of boots hitting the platform was like the repetitive pulsation of a forging hammer, a stark contrast to the countless temporary conscripts around them—neat, orderly, and unstoppable.

Hours of marching continued through the connecting passageways. Battle flags hung high above, some bearing bullet holes and burn marks—traces left by the Horus Rebellion ten thousand years ago, never to be repaired. Krieg's ranks passed beneath the flags, their footsteps forming a continuous, low-frequency rumble, like a greyish-white river flowing through a metallic canyon.

The passageway grew deeper and deeper. The walls transitioned from metal to marble inlaid with dark gold patterns, worn smooth by countless footsteps. At the end of the passageway, a giant door opened. The rear guard was still lined up in the spaceport, stretching to the horizon like a river frozen in rock.

Beyond the gate lay the palace corridor. Wide enough for four transport ships to pass side-by-side, and over fifty meters high, its dome supported by a mithril framework, casting dappled light and shadow through stained-glass armor. At intervals between the pillars stood guards. All were members of several Right Crusader units of the Dark Templar, hastily conscripted here. They stood silently in the shadows, the Eternal Cross etched into their black armor, their chainswords held upright before them. Krieg's ranks marched past them. The Dark Templar's chainswords remained motionless.

The Imperial Guards have all entered the net channel to carry out their millennia-long revenge.

Passing through the palace and entering the Webpath was the highest honor bestowed by the Emperor himself. Since the Emperor issued the mobilization order, in just a few weeks, several Astral Army legions' honor squads, two Astartes Chapters' auxiliary formations, and high-ranking combat groups from various worlds of the Solar System had marched along the same route. The oldest battle banners bore the bullet holes of the Great Crusade era, while the newest battle robes still carried the smoke of the Crusades. They passed before the Emperor and entered the abyss of the Webpath. Now, it was Krieg's turn.

On the side of the square, the largest mortal choir of the state church was already arrayed. Thousands, dressed in deep purple and white robes, stood in dozens of tiers on the steps. Their voices converged beneath the dome into a continuously rising wave of sound—an ancient High Gothic hymn, its melody existing for millennia, each note seeming to be pressed into the air from the direction of the golden throne. These choir members had been singing intermittently here for days, their voices hoarse, their eyes red and swollen, but not one of them had stopped. They sang for every passing legion, without interruption. At this moment, they sang for Krieg.

The young nuns stood, tears welling in their eyes, their voices steady. Their song pierced the dome of the square, the walls of the palace, and the dust and sorrow accumulated over a thousand years, landing on their coats.

Krieg's ranks did not stop. As they passed beneath the choir, no one turned, no one slowed their pace. But at the rear, a young soldier extended his right hand as he marched. His palm rested on the chest of his coat, facing the choir—a gesture extremely rare in the Krieg Regiment, somewhere between a veteran's battlefield blessing and a civilian's prayer gesture, never written into any manual. He did not turn, he did not stop. His hand paused for a moment, then returned to his side, and he continued marching. The veterans around him did not correct him. The young nuns opposite him continued singing. But their voices, at that moment, rose a note higher, soaked with tears, yet not broken. At the highest point of the choir, an elderly nun with silver hair gently patted the young nun's shoulder, tears welling in her eyes, and continued conducting.

The doors to the throne room stood at the far end of the square. The massive, adamantine doors were etched with complete prayers, their edges inlaid with slowly pulsating anti-phantom runes. The doors were open. Dark golden light seeped from the cracks, like golden fluid pressed into the surface of reality. A column of soldiers began to cross the threshold.

Pilgrims who had passed through here before had knelt and wept before the throne, and the Legion of Honor of the Astronautical Army had also stopped and bowed their heads here.

But Krieg did not. The column moved forward, countless gas masks turning in the same direction simultaneously. Breathing from the filter canisters was heavier than usual, but the column remained orderly. They were marching—marching towards the Emperor. Every step was forward.

As the soldier passed the throne's base, his right fist pressed against his chest, his lens aimed at the emperor's face. He maintained this posture for the entire distance, then lowered his hand and continued forward. No one in the long procession stopped, no one knelt. The entire army moved with unwavering rhythm, their steps as precise as the repetitive pulse of a machine. The emperor's will silently enveloped the ranks in that dark golden light. Tens of thousands bowed in turn as they marched.

A dark golden light spread across them. Their greyish-white coats gleamed with a dull sheen, and the lenses of their gas masks reflected tiny specks of light. They walked past the Emperor like a silent river flowing past the foot of a burning mountain.

The procession began to extend into the passageways deep within the throne room. They would pass through the artificial network gates leading to Karasta, heading towards the battlefield, towards death. Behind them, on the berth platform of Lionsgate Spaceport, the next transport ship of the Legion of Honor was docking. The Emperor remained seated on the Golden Throne, watching them.

At the same moment, deep within Mars.

Kaul's laboratory is located nearly a thousand kilometers below the equator—a cavity encased in an adamantite skeleton, over ten kilometers in diameter. Kaul hovers in the center of the cavity, dozens of mechanical arms extending from beneath his crimson robes. His face is concealed by a mask, revealing only two optical lenses. Behind him, hundreds of thousands of stasis chambers are arranged in concentric arcs. Each chamber is over three meters tall, containing a humanoid silhouette with closed eyes. These hundreds of thousands of chambers stretch from his feet to the horizon, like an inverted matrix of stars.

Mars's secret reserves far exceed any documented records. Even the High Lords Council only knows the tip of the iceberg—the reserves that Caul accumulated over millennia under the guise of official Imperial quotas, scattered across stasis fields in several secret facilities on and around Mars. And the one being activated now is the largest of these reserves.

The Emperor's psionic command was brief and clear: "Awaken them. Destroy all enemies of humanity."

Kaul's robotic arm pressed the activation sequence. The indicator light jumped from dark red to bright white, pulses spread along the data bus, and the stasis field gradually dissipated. At the same time, the hatch slid open, and the hissing sound of the seals being released merged into a continuous low-frequency sound wave, like a glacier being pushed open and cracking.

The first Proto-Forged Space Marine opened his eyes. His pupils instantly adjusted their focus, his fingers clenched and unclenched. He sat up, slid out of the pod, and landed on the metal platform with the soles of his boots. He was over two and a half meters tall and wore a gray undershirt. Hundreds of thousands of bodies sat up, stood up, and landed simultaneously. Hundreds of thousands stood silently in the cavity.

Hundreds of thousands of eyes adjusted to the cold light of the cavity in the same instant. Their pupils contracted synchronously, like a light curtain driven by the same command sweeping across the entire array. There were no coughs, no rustling sounds, and no one, still dizzy from awakening, clung to the edge of the silo. Hundreds of thousands of people entered a state of standby at the same moment.

Kaul's optical lens swept across every face. They had waited in stillness for countless years, and now they were awakening. They knew who they were, who they belonged to, and where they were going.

"Command confirmed. Deployment sequence: Karata network node. Operational parameters loaded. All personnel in position."

Hundreds of thousands of fists simultaneously pressed against the breastplate. Kaul's vocal apparatus emitted a very short pulse—dry,

The machine, compressed to its limit like a machine that has been suppressed for too long, has finally found a release point. Less than half a second later, it is compressed back into standby mode.

His robotic arm pressed the sequence again. The hatch deep within the cavity slid open, revealing neatly arranged MKX-type power armor—

Kaul secretly prepared the weapons for these warriors over ten thousand years under the guise of the imperial official quota.

The awakening has begun. Hundreds of thousands of Primalforged Space Marines will be activated, armed, and loaded within a standard day, boarding transport ships from the Mars orbital dock and heading towards Terra, towards the Webway.

On the Martian surface, the lights of the orbital dock illuminated row by row. The transport ship's engines began to preheat, their exhaust flames spreading a burning patch of light across the night hemisphere.

These warriors will complete their equipment adaptation and grouping in the coming days, and then be deployed to Karasta in batches. They will fill the deepest gaps in the defenses, heading to the front lines where the Apostolic Guard and the Astrail Forces have been unable to advance further, and establishing unshakable anchors at the weakest points of the Imperial defenses.

At the same moment, in the third quadrant on the edge of Karasta, the battle lines of the Apostles and the Slaanesh army were converging deep within the Eldar ruins. The dome of that open cavity had been largely eroded away by Chaos, and broken sections of the sacred bone walls protruded from the edges like broken ribs. The remaining cold psionic light struggled and flickered in the dark purple glow of the Slaanesh rifts, immersing the entire cavity in an unstable halo of alternating gray-blue and dark red light.

A deep crimson surged from the flank of the position. It was the Eighth Legion of the Martian Apostolic Army—three hundred thousand mechanized warriors directly under the Martian Forge World, deployed to the flank of the Third Quadrant during the first week of the Battle of Karasta. Connected by a synchronized neural will, they were a walking war machine; the blue-white beams of their electric rifles intertwined in front of their ranks, and the hammerheads of their arc hammers unleashed dazzling chain lightning with each swing. They advanced in the oldest phalanx formation of the Mechanicus, twenty men per formation, led by an Alpha leader, forming dense battle ranks within the shadow of the Titans' leg armor. Their crimson mechanized battle robes fluttered in the vacuum, data cables connected to tactical computing machines from the back of their necks, and optical lenses formed a dark red sea of ​​light on their visors.

Slaanesh's purple legions moved in a completely different way—a dance of swirling, gliding, and intertwining amidst the ruins. The succubi's blades drew silvery arcs with each turn, and hell chariots burst from the gaps in the ranks, their massive grinding blades pulverizing the Eldar ruins along their path. The entire battle line resembled a spinning kaleidoscope—each stained glass a blade.

The Martian Guardians' volley of electric rifles tore scorch marks through the purple waves, and phosphorescent explosives ignited the front ranks of succubi. Arc hammers slammed into the enemy ranks, and blue-white currents leaped, spread, and exploded on the purple scales. But the Slaanesh's demon army completely ignored casualties; they laughed and spun, thinning the crimson ranks layer by layer.

An Alpha of the Guardians charged into the enemy ranks, his Arc Hammer exploding into a blue-white arc of electricity upon impact, while his Streamer Pistol was pressed against the head of a Slaanesh and fired. But purple figures surged in from all sides, their claws slicing into the seams of his shoulder armor. As he fell to his knees, he was still using his mechanical arm to choke a Succubus's throat, until the data cable snapped from the back of his neck and the optical lens went out.

The Titan Guard's heavy infantry phalanx pressed forward from the rear, while the Divine Shields used their powered shields to block the Slaanesh cavalry charge. The Eighth Legion of the Martian Apostolic Guard was being surrounded on three sides by the Slaanesh revelry, with only intermittent binary screams remaining on the communication channels, but the Titans had already completed their recharge in the rear.

The warlord-class Titans unleashed their volcanic cannons in succession. Blazing white beams, like spears of judgment falling from the sky, struck the rear ranks of the purple legion with precise intervals. The instant the beams struck the ground, the purple ranks vanished in swathes, like pieces of paper swallowed by lava.

In the lulls in the artillery fire, the crimson array recoiled. The surviving defenders rose from the edges of the scorched earth and took their next step toward the healing purple fissure. Behind them, the next rank of volcanic cannons charged.

Further away, on the Martian Forging General's command platform, the massive mechanical silhouette continuously rotated its sensor array. He didn't look at the Apostolic Guard array in the third quadrant—the data stream had already told him the course of the battle. His self-beam was locked on the still-expanding crimson rift deeper within Karasta, calculating the window for the arrival of subsequent Martian legions. The God of Machines was watching. The Deep Reserve Protocol was activated. The Martian war machine would not stop—no enemy could make it bow.

Behind them, the Ninth Legion of the Martian Apostolic Army was advancing with precision, accurately taking over the defensive line. Losses themselves are not terrible; what is terrible is the lack of hope.

As long as the defenses remain, the healing of the network will not stop. This is the first time since the fall of Karata ten thousand years ago that the Empire has seized the initiative.