Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 188 The Cyber ​​War (5)

The Fergáze Mountains began to tremble.

Lava gushed from fissures that hadn't erupted for millennia, spreading dark red veins across the greyish-black surface and flowing slowly along valleys carved by ancient glaciers. Sulfur vapor rose from fissures in the mountain ridges, forming rolling yellow columns in Medusa IV's eternal, toxic twilight. This was the redistribution of underlying stress across the entire planet, as rock layers slowly slid across a scale of millions of square kilometers, transmitting crustal fissures from volcanic mountains to the plains on either side.

Morlock sensed the psionic projection pressing into the mind control network from the direction of Terra. He was called "Morlock"—

This is the ancient title bestowed upon the most elite warriors of the Iron Hand Legion, named after the most ferocious predator on Medusa, symbolizing power and destruction. He is one of the oldest Iron Fathers of the Avigni Clan, who has guarded the volcanic plains of Medusa for millennia. The Avigni Clan is one of the ten original clans of the Iron Hand responsible for guarding the Skull of Feralus on the altar, the Tenth Legion's unhealed wound and their inextinguishable fuel. His face has been mostly replaced by machinery, with only the voice and the interface to the ThoughtMaintenance Network retaining traces of its connection to flesh and blood. Forty-one Iron Fathers operate the will of the Iron Hand under consensus, and Morlock is the most silent and the first to react. The psionic projection has no complete shape, no resolvable semantics, only a weight compressed to its limit. It cannot be encoded in mechanical logic, it can only be transmitted. Morlock emits a waveform of continuous overload, leaving an unresolvable rift in the logical layer of the ThoughtMaintenance Network.

"The millennia-long wait is over. The offspring of Medusa are about to embark on a sacred expedition, an expedition to Terra, an expedition to the Emperor."

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The light began to recede from the edges inwards, gradually converging. The light retreated simultaneously from the shoulder armor and boot soles, gathering towards the center, the last ray seeping into the air before dissipating. The Eye of Medusa sank back into darkness. A lingering warmth remained on the skull on the altar; the metallic deposits on its surface slowly grew in the eternal darkness, covering most of the skin, leaving only the faint outline of the jawline. The weight of the projection lingered briefly in the warmth before vanishing completely.

Morlock poured the waveform into forty-one brains along the Mind Maintenance Network. The waveform couldn't be deciphered by any protocol within mechanical logic. It simply kept pushing outwards, like a door welded shut for ten thousand years being forced open from the inside. The waveform persisted in the Mind Maintenance Network for three seconds—for the Steel Council, three seconds was eternity. Forty-one mechanical chairs unlocked simultaneously.

The cable severed from the back of his head. He fearlessly strode forward, his suspended head being attached to a new body by a robotic arm. The Iron Fathers poured out of the tunnel.

The news spread to every clan in Medusa. The Kalgul clan broke camp at the Eternal Watch of the Karash Highlands, and sixteen mobile fortresses began to move along the southern slopes of the volcanic mountains, their tracks grinding through the freshly cooled lava, leaving parallel scorch marks on the greyish-black surface. The clan unsealed armored vehicles stored from the Great Crusade in their underground armories; the insignia of the Tenth Legion was still clearly visible, and the sealing wax, hardened into a translucent amber shell over millennia, was peeled away layer by layer by technical officers using hot-melt knives. All the clans converged simultaneously on the Tel Ring orbital port.

War horns tore through the sky in Medusa's toxic atmosphere.

There were no pre-battle prayers, no rituals. Only ships warmed up in their berths, one after another. The Father of Hell emerged from the depths of the Eye of Medusa. He had never left the altar. As the Emperor's projection receded, the Father of Hell heard no words. But he felt a brief weight fall upon his shoulder. He placed the head from the altar into a sealed mithril box, personally escorted by four Morlock Guards. As the box closed, the lingering warmth deep within the skull's eye sockets briefly shone in the condensation of the sealed gas before extinguishing. "Felus Manus"—this was the first time in ten thousand years he had stepped down from the altar.

On orbit, the Steel Hand and its sub-groups of ships are forming up. The battleship "Iron Fist" slides out of its main berth in the Tel Ring, its armor bearing traces of micrometeorite impacts from thousands of years ago, and its port side bearing a melted scorch from the Horus Rebellion that has never been repaired.

The battleship HMS Gorgon Spear entered the formation from outer orbit. Its bow ram had been embedded in the flagship armor of the Greenskins war chief during the Great Expedition, a battle personally commanded by Felus.

The cruisers "Medusa's Eye" and "Immortal" simultaneously entered the rendezvous course from both sides of the star ring.

Behind these capital ships, dozens of strike cruisers, frigates, and transport ships were arranged in a loose formation—transport ships in the center and combat ships on the periphery. The total number of combat and logistical ships was nearly one hundred, covering all available forces of the ten clans, plus reinforcements from the Iron Fist and Red Claw chapters that were converging, including combat personnel, technical officers, servitude, Hellfathers, and hundreds of thousands of support units.

The Iron Hand detachments scattered across the Armageddon war zone, the Calithis sector, and the edge of the extreme star field also received the astronomical pulse at the same moment and began to converge on Terra.

After Morlock completed formation confirmation on the bridge, he emitted a short binary pulse. Then his voice crackled in the darkness, dry and strained as if squeezed from millennia of silence: "The Primarch of the Steel Hand—Gorgon of Medusa, Felus Manus—awaits in Karasta. We're going to bring him home."

The fleet's thrusters ignited, and it sailed towards Mandeville Point, heading towards Terra.

Behind them, the ground of Medusa IV trembled continuously from volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. The guide lights of the Tel Rings shifted from blue to green, and the orbital harbor gradually retracted its supports. The aftershocks of that stellar pulse continued to spread through interstellar space, sinking into the deep sea and transmitting its vibrations to even more distant places.

The world of Usvi's Ark roams in the eternal twilight beyond the Eye of Fear. Its emblem is the Tears of Isha, a mere symbol for millennia. Until this moment.

High Prophet Eldrad Uslan awoke from his meditation. He had lived among the Eldar for over ten thousand years, experiencing the long years since their fall, witnessing countless breaks and forks in the threads of fate. But this time was different. The vague possibility he sensed was replaced by a clear psionic pulse—originating from the direction of Nurgle Gardens, from the prison where the Goddess of Life was held captive. Aisha had never sent any conscious signal during her ten thousand years of imprisonment. At this moment, the warning pierced through the chaotic sea of ​​warp space, landing precisely and coincidentally on Usvi's psionic focusing array. The skeletal walls flashed briefly upon the pulse's arrival, then returned to normal.

At the same time, at the edge of that pulse, a very faint chuckle flashed through the crevice of the subspace—like someone laughing behind a curtain before retreating back into the darkness.

The message traveled throughout Usvi via the echoes of the skeletal remains. In a way far older than any communication array, it was transmitted through the ark skeleton to every berth. Eldrad issued a psionic summons within hours. This was the first high-level inter-ark emergency meeting convened since the Eldar's fall, triggered by Aisha's warning. The Eldar had drifted through the galaxy for millennia, each going their own way, only gathering when their survival was at stake. Clearly, this was that moment.

The message traveled along the psionic links of the network to Altok, Biye-Tan, Iyanden, and Sem-Khan. Tribal warriors lined up in the War Temple, and the Bone Singers ceased their work in the Bone Corridor at the deepest part of the Ark. Altok would dispatch rangers and scouts. Biye-Tan's war fleet departed within hours. Iyanden's chapter and the Nether Constructs were assembled. Sem-Khan's motor cavalry had completed formation in the airspace surrounding the Ark. Forces from all sides were converging on Usvi.

Larger issues remain unresolved in the Prophet's Dome.

Bier-Tan's representative advocated an immediate attack—assembling tribe warriors and Cairne avatars to launch a surprise attack on the weakest point in the human defenses, destroying the network node and then quickly disengaging. Iyanden's representative was more cautious: the situation in Karasta was still unclear, and a hasty war would only deprive the Eldar of their options; they should seek a rift between Chaos and humanity. Sam-Han's plan was somewhere in between: using motorized cavalry and fast ships for precision strikes, creating chaos before disengaging, allowing both sides to wear each other down without pinning the Eldar forces to the front lines.

A few prophets and Bonecallers offered a more radical perspective. They argued that Aisha's warning of "rebirth from the ashes" pointed not to war, but to coexistence. The Emperor was at war with the Slaanesh, and if the Eldar could suppress the Chaos's infiltration of the Webpaths, they too could benefit. This voice was weak, but it was fully heard.

The debate lasted for several hours. Then the Emperor's galactic psionic broadcast reached Usvi.

Eldrad was the first to sense the pulse. It pressed into Usv's psionic focusing array from the depths of the warp, causing the skeletal walls of the Prophet's Dome to tremble and the psionic channeling patterns to light up word by word. The Eldar of the Ark had lived in the galaxy for countless millennia, witnessing the rise and fall of countless empires. But when the Emperor's broadcast pressed into Usv's, the scale of the pulse exceeded the foresight of any Eldar prophet. Fear was overwhelmed, replaced by a weight from the other side of the galaxy—a weight that was reshaping the world.

Karata. The Impossible City. The Emperor is rebuilding the Web there.

Eldrad stood up. His voice resonated through the resonant walls of the spirit bones, carrying the prophetic quality unique to a millennium-old prophet, each word like a fragment ripped from the threads of fate: "He is repairing the Web. He is filling the skeleton left behind by the ancient saints with his will. If successful, Eldar may face utter destruction, or it may be an opportunity."

He could sense the direction of the fate line. And in the gap between chaos and humanity, a narrow, moving rift briefly shone.

"If we were to wage war against humanity now, we would be facing attacks from both the Slaanesh Legion and humanity. We need to enter Karatha and find an opportunity between Chaos and humanity—to destroy humanity's ambitions if necessary, and to assist humanity in suppressing Chaos if necessary. The survival of the Eldar is the highest priority."

Biye-Tan accepted the plan. Iyanden did not object. Sem-Khan indicated that a rapid raid was feasible. The Prophet Council passed the final motion: the Ark fleet would sail to Karata and wait for the opportune moment.

Usvi's skeletal ship began to slide out of the dock, heading towards the Webpath branch. The journey from Usvi to Karasta via the Webpath would take several weeks. Upon arrival, Eldrad knew where to stop—his location was the still-moving, narrow gap between the Human Front and the Chaos Rift, a gap that shifted as the Webpath repaired.

Deep within the net, at the boundary between the eternal, cold white halo and the false sun, another fleet also set sail at the same moment.

The spire of Gamor rises in the eternity deep within the Web of Eternity. The city of the Dark Eldar is illuminated by imprisoned miniature suns, their captured stars slowly burning, casting a false glow upon the city. Asrubel Viktor, the Eternal King, sits on his throne, watching the Imperial psionic broadcasts being translated into the Dark Eldar language. He casually toys with an Imperial Inquisitor brooch embedded in the armrest of his chair—a trophy from a recent raid. The blood of the human-monkey on the brooch's back has long since dried, but he likes the sense of "ending" it evokes.

Gamor itself is a giant node in the network space. If the Empire controls Karasta, it will be tantamount to kicking open Gamor's gates.

What Victor needed was speed. He quickly completed his calculations: avoid direct confrontation, send a plundering fleet into Karasta to seek opportunities—captures, technology, sabotage, killing, kidnapping—the bottom line being that the Empire must never gain control of the network, not even a single node. He issued a mobilization order to the noble families and conspiracies of Gamor. The conspiratorial representatives on either side of the throne room lit up simultaneously upon hearing the order. Obedience was merely a facade; beneath the surface, calculations were churning. Whoever sent a fleet that brought back the most spoils would dominate the future power structure.

Victor didn't respond to the self-illuminating lights. He knew they were short-sighted and ruthless, but they were the fuel he needed. He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over the conspiratorial leaders who were mentally strategizing, a thin arc worn smooth by millennia of cold light curving his lips. "Let them scream," he said, his voice falling from the throne, as light as a needle on silk. "That's the best farewell music for Gamor."

The fleet completed preparations within days. Dozens of Torture-class cruisers and Sunset-class battleships formed a massive flotilla, sliding from Gamor's berths into the Webpath branch. Before departure, Victor, as was customary, approved a sacrificial offering of tens of thousands of captured Imperial citizens, who were thrown into the abyss of Gamor. This was the fleet's departure ceremony, and also a signal: Gamor would not stand idly by while humanity gained control of the Webpath; slaughter was the best way to stop it.

Target: Karata. Mission: Observe, plunder, sabotage, kill, kidnap.

Deeper in the void, in those abandoned star systems never marked on the Imperial star map, Gogo and Mao didn't need to "decide" anything. When the direction of Karata began to emanate that scent, all the Orks simultaneously "contemplated" the same thing. Language and signals were superfluous; that scent was enough.

The Greenskin tribes, who were at war with the Empire, suddenly became fanatical, and the warbands that were resting began to move in the same direction. The fleets entrenched on the space wrecks also began to adjust their course.

The war moons began to move. Each war moon, ranging in diameter from tens to hundreds of kilometers, dragged along the asteroid belt, leaving a slowly moving cloud of debris in the sky. Each war moon was a mobile platform of destruction, welded together from wrecked ships and asteroids, its surface covered with crudely made armor plates and massive cannons. Several war moons simultaneously turned from different star sectors towards a point on the edge of the solar system, in an abandoned system in the hazy star field, near the Eye of Terror. They each followed their own course, loosely grouped, but heading in the same direction. Gogo and Maogo had already indicated the direction: burst into Karasta through the rift in the net.

They might take months to arrive. The green-skinned gods never mind waiting, as long as the battle that comes is big enough, wow!

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