Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 191 The Cyber ​​War (8)

Karata North Line, Khorne Rift.

The walls of the sacred bone at the edge of the rift were covered with a thick layer of crimson psionic deposits. These deposits flowed slowly like congealed blood in millennia-old ice, spreading outwards several inches along the texture of the sacred bone with each surge of demonic waves.

The fissure has not widened significantly in the past few days. Every attempt to expand has been crushed by the macro-cannon and thermal firepower. The fissure remains pinned to its existing boundary, but has never truly closed.

The 7th Shield Guard Company was one link in the Imperial Guard's defensive line of over two thousand men on the northern front. Similar formations stretched along the edges of the fissure on both sides, extending from the central section of the northern front to the edge of the radiation zone. The main force of the Imperial Guard was under the unified command of Marshal Trajan; the Shield Guard Company's defensive line was merely one grid within this vast network. At this moment, artillery fire roared, and each grid simultaneously bore the same weight.

The Titan swarm's suppressive fire was the fundamental prerequisite for the array to maintain its defensive line. More than 90% of the surging demon army was wiped out at the rift exit, and only the remnants actually reached the Imperial Guard.

Behind the Titan swarm, the silhouette of a cruiser emerged from the cold, psionic light of the Network Nexus. Its broadside macrocannons had just completed a volley; the muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness as six Thunderfighters swept past below, their thruster exhausts leaving parallel blue trails before regrouping. Those flashes briefly illuminated the Ultramariner insignia on the cruiser's broadside before fading. The Titan Soul Network did not respond to these signals—they were not a threat, merely part of the battlefield backdrop, being consumed like everything else on this front.

Quintus stood slightly to the left of the center of the defensive line. His gleaming gold armor was covered in dark red burn marks, and the blade of his Guardian Spear was still dissipating heat, the edge retaining its lingering dark gold warmth. His left fingertips tapped lightly on the spear shaft. When the tapping stopped, the formation would shift.

Many positions in the formation had been filled. Those who filled the gaps had returned from ten thousand years ago, donning their golden armor once more under the Emperor's summons. They silently filled the voids, then silently continued the fight. Quintus didn't look at the new faces: the formation's status data was continuously transmitted back through internal sensor links: the position, posture, and weapon status of every Imperial Guard member were updated second by second in his field of vision. The entire northern front was contracting simultaneously; the Emperor had recalled not only the fallen of the 7th Shield Guard Company, but the entire northern defensive line.

The crimson sedimentary layer at the edge of the fissure began to crack. Khorne's legions surged forth in cycles of eight, eight waves in a single cycle, each wave building upon the previous one. The first wave had been crushed minutes earlier, debris scattered in front of the formation. Service sergeants moved through the gaps, recovering usable spent cartridges and weapon components.

Titan artillery fire rained down first, the incandescent plasma and crimson projectiles weaving together to form a burning barrier within the exit radius. Nearly a quarter of the demonic army still managed to cross the line of fire. Simultaneously, the formation switched gears, its force field generators switching to combat mode.

The Fleshhounds charged head-on first. Explosive muskets fired in volleys at intervals of less than half a second, halting the hounds ten meters in front of the formation. The Bloodletters' wedge-shaped front followed closely behind. Quintus issued the order: the left flank contracted ten meters, the right flank advanced fifteen meters, and the defensive line rotated around the left flank as an axis. The Bloodletters' charge axis was cut at an angle, distributing the pressure over a larger contact surface. The Imperial Guard tightened their fire line while simultaneously advancing.

The fissure expanded, the sedimentary layer cracked, and more remnants burst through the cannon wall. Quintus cleaved through the charge of three Bloodletters in quick succession, while the left-flank replacement cleaved a Fleshhound in two from the shoulder, leaving three parallel scorch marks on its left shoulder armor. After the third wave was crushed, a Bloodthirsty Berserker emerged from the depths of the fissure. It burst out of the artillery barrage during a gap in the Titan cluster's cooldown cycle, its dive trajectory aimed directly at the left flank of the array. The replacement took a half-step forward, its force field generator jumping to overload mode. He slid to the side as the giant axe cleaved down, the blade striking the sacred ground and splitting a rift. The Guardian Spear sliced ​​upwards into the Bloodthirsty Berserker's breastplate, entering through the abdominal seam, piercing the chest cavity, and exiting behind the shoulder blade. The Bloodthirsty Berserker collapsed to its knees. The replacement retreated to its original position.

The wreckage had piled up to his waist. Quintus didn't look down. The array's gap data continued to update, the replacement's position remained stable, and the energy waveform at the rift exit was changing as the Khorne compressed the intervals. He didn't adjust his posture, simply maintaining the rhythm of his tapping.

Deeper into the battle lines, Trajan slipped through a gap in the rear of the formation, entering the flank of the Khorne Rift's radiation zone. The Lord's Helmet, the Watcher's Axe, the Shackles of Time. Bloodletters shattered as they passed, fleshhounds disintegrated. Kurzak rose from the crimson sediment as a Bloodskull Reaper, the second second-tier soldier of the Khorne Eighth Order. Trajan stopped. A wall of sacred bone covered in crimson sediment separated them. It was the instinctive pause of predators confirming each other's worth. The Shackles of Time trembled. Trajan's half-step forward was compressed to its limit by the Shackles of Time. The Watcher's Axe sliced ​​upwards into Kurzak's breastplate, a wrist flick completing the rotational cut. Kurzak collapsed to his knees. Trajan moved on to the next direction, without pausing.

On the flank of the battle line, in a mobile radiation zone, Sister Valeria led hundreds of nuns in silver shrouds, maintaining another line of defense. Meltguns and flamethrowers formed a moving wall of fire on the flank. Valeria stood at the forefront of this wall, her chainsword still dissipating heat after repeated slashes. A fleshhound pounced from the shadows on the flank, its claws leaving three parallel scorch marks on her shoulder armor.

The frequency of the energy waveform at the fissure exit is changing. The array completes an attitude switch in an instant, and the force field generator jumps to overload mode.

The Imperial Guard array bore the brunt of the impact; the overload alarm on the force field generator was suppressed in less than half a second. The left-wing replacement's explosive rifle, its barrel still glowing a dark red warmth after continuous fire, used a spear blade to cleave open the skull of a Bloodletter who had sliced ​​in from the side during a reload interval. The array did not retreat. The fifth wave was crushed.

Khorne, in the intervals between compressed shocks, attempted to overwhelm the Empire's firepower cycle with an even faster pulse frequency. Quintus locked onto the direction of the rift exit.

The crimson light deep within the fissure did not immediately rekindle; the sedimentary layer contracted, and the fissure's width slowly narrowed. Khorne's self-illumination briefly shifted away from the northern line. Quintus did not relax. The array maintained its spacing, boundaries, and state. The fissure continued to narrow, and the psionic conduits at the edges began to pulsate faintly again. The array neither advanced nor retreated.

Quintus's left hand remained on the spear shaft. The hundred or so Imperial Guards in the formation maintained their spacing, firing arc, and stance. The entire northern front was contracting simultaneously—this gap was merely a mesh on the entire battle line, and the giant net was tightening again.

A rapid barrage of anti-aircraft laser cannon fire erupted from the flank of a makeshift Imperial position. The flashes of explosions illuminated the area briefly in the cold, psionic light. Between the disappearance and reappearance of that light, another engagement filled the gap. The airspace above Karasta had no fixed battle lines, only a constantly shifting contact surface where Imperial fighters and Chaos flying units repeatedly met, separated, and met again—each encounter consuming fuel and lives.

The meat grinder on the northern line is still running. The fissure is narrowing. Service aircraft continue to retrieve wreckage. The formation is not advancing.

On the Black Pearl, the cold, psionic light of Karasta had completely faded from the porthole. Cohen sat by the porthole in his private workshop, his consciousness enhanced to the point where he could extend along the mesh wall to the farthest reaches, sensing the dark golden light flowing from the depths. He sensed its texture, its waveform, and the distance it extended within the psionic conduit patterns.

He didn't try to decipher it, because he knew what it was. He withdrew his consciousness.

"Marcus, current speed?"

"Conventional plasma propulsion is stable."

"Continue to move forward."

"The entire ship's sensor array is at maximum capacity, and the Shadow Force Field array is suppressing it. Currently, the Black Pearl's signal is maintained within a relatively small range."

"Stay vigilant."

"clear."

Cohen leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His consciousness continued to extend deep into the network—the Black Pearl had to find a path from Karasta to Garros. His consciousness wasn't amplified, but it could penetrate the energy channels of the network's walls, extending to extremely long distances. This was Cohen's breakthrough in his ability to navigate the network.

As the rift contracted, another door deep within Karasta was being pushed open. The converging dark golden light pointed towards a coordinate deep within the Nexus—the core section of the Macragge's Radiance. There, the decay curve of the stasis field had completed its final phase.

The core section of the Macragge's Glory. The observation platform was already packed with people. Representatives of the Terra Highlords' Council stood at the front, followed by senior commanders of the Karasta Sector. A holographic image of the Mars Forging General hovered on the left wing of the platform, its optical array locked in the same direction. Belisarius Caul stood at the entrance to the Stasis Throne Chamber; he was the technical representative who had accompanied the Martian fleet upon its arrival in Karasta, and several robotic arms were already connected to the data interfaces on the bulkhead. The decay curve of the stasis field moved frame by frame on the terminal screen, each frame approaching the preset threshold.

A dark golden light enveloped Guilliman's torso and shoulder armor. The light didn't flow in any direction; it simply existed, like a door that had been waiting for millennia finally opening inward.

Guilliman sat enthroned on the marble throne. His face was frozen in slumber, his short blond hair retaining the color it had before entering stillness. Blue armor covered his body, the golden eagle emblem on his shoulder blades still prominent. The Emperor's Sword lay across his lap. An old wound stretched from the left side of his neck to his collarbone, its edges still bearing the marks of Vorgrim's poisoned blade, frozen in stillness for millennia.

The dark golden light converged on the old wound. Deposits peeled away, crumbled, and dissipated. The skin at the wound's edge tightened again, and the eagle emblem regained its sharp, cold outline. The light faded and vanished.

Guilliman's eyes flickered a few times before he opened them. What met his gaze were layers upon layers of figures, all frozen, staring at him. Everything seemed different now. Then a deluge of information flooded his mind; he could only set it all aside, with no time to examine it closely.

His first breath carried the scent of holy oil and circulating air. He glanced down at his right hand, fingers opening, closing, opening again. His gaze swept over the Imperial Sword on his lap, confirming it was still in place. Then he turned toward the throne room exit. As he stepped out of the hatch, the Terran time reading in the corner of the data terminal screen refreshed automatically. He glanced at that line, didn't pause, and continued forward.

A dark golden light surged from the direction of the throne, passing through the walls of the net walkway, through the armor plates of the throne room, and landing on his body as he straightened up. It wasn't illumination; it was weight.

The light coalesced into an outline in the open space outside the throne room. Golden armor, the silhouette of the Great Crusade, stood there, stable, clear, and complete. But a faint pulsation emanated from the edges of his face, like an undercurrent suppressed beneath a mirror, occasionally revealing itself. It was the trace of the struggle between humanity and divinity, the price of choosing to stand on the side of humanity. His voice carried the weight of decisiveness, but certain syllables were slightly drawn out, as if someone were speaking two languages ​​simultaneously.

"My number thirteen."

His voice resonated throughout the hall, precise and powerful. Then he paused—a brief pause, but one that was enough for everyone to notice he was confirming something: that he had used the correct number.

Guilliman stood there. He was trying to discern if the outline was real. He noticed the faint pulse at the edge. His right hand was tucked in half an angle at his side—it was him. The old wound beneath his armor, to the left of his collarbone—had healed, but the location remained. He remembered it. He remembered the sword strike in Thessalon ten thousand years ago, and he remembered falling thinking Terra had fallen.

"Kalasta—repaired. The core." The Emperor's voice paused, like someone struggling to grasp a word that was slipping away. "That net of light, not mine. It has reached its end. Now slow down." His fingers curled and loosened in the void. "The rift cannot close. Let them see—see the opening."

They will pounce. They will all pounce. They think—that's an opportunity. It's not. It's a…

He stopped. The pulsation spread inward from the edge of his face, like a tide rushing back. When he spoke again, his voice had changed, as if another person were speaking: "Leaving the rift intact was a sound strategic decision."

Then He pressed down on that layer. His face flickered, then returned. "Then we closed the door."

Guilliman's gaze swept across the observation platform—the lower right corner of the data panel screens displaying the casualty curve slope, Chaos reinforcement density, and Imperial reinforcement window. Those numbers confirmed his suspicions. "You're using the Web as bait."

"Yes."

Guilliman waited for the Emperor to finish his sentence. When the Emperor spoke again, his voice did not rise. He was pressing the words into place as if he were flattening a rolled-up piece of paper with his palm.

"You stand at the top. Karata's." He paused, as if confirming the position of that qualifier. "I authorize you to command the entire army. The Custodians. The Titans of Mars. The Astartes. The Astral Army." The list quickened slightly towards the end, as if skipping over names that didn't need confirmation. "Ferrus and Chagatai are in charge of crushing. You stand at the crossroads—those battle lines. Align them. Until I reach you."

When he finished the last half of the sentence, his voice softened slightly. It wasn't hesitation, but rather a focused concentration, as if he were checking a word that had to be said correctly.

Guilliman's gaze remained fixed. "Ferrus is dead."

The emperor's lips moved slightly. The pulsation spread from below his cheekbone, covering half his face, before receding.

When He spoke again, His voice was a notch lower than before: "I have found him."

Guilliman waited for the second half of the sentence. Two seconds later, the Emperor's lips parted again: "He was shattered. But I found him again."

Guilliman paused for a moment. The Emperor used the word "recovered," then "shattered." He didn't press for more information because that would mean discussing what He had done over those ten thousand years, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face that answer.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"As Regent of the Empire, exercise your authority." The Emperor's voice softened slightly at that moment, like a layer of water repeatedly smoothed out. "You oversee the whole situation. They crush it. We wait."

He stopped. The pulsation spread from the corner of his mouth, covering his lips. His lips moved slightly, as if searching for a word, then he spoke again, his voice a notch lower than before: "—Waiting. Complete."

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