Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 193 Returning to Garros

The airspace surrounding Karata is no longer airspace. It has become a furnace—a furnace where steel, fire, and soul burn simultaneously.

The eternal twilight of psionic cold light was utterly shattered, replaced by the constant flashes of gunfire, one extinguishing immediately followed by another, like an anvil forever forging, each hammer blow illuminating the entire dome for a fleeting moment before sinking back into darkness in the embers. The orange-red halo of the macrocannon salvo, the bluish-white incandescence of the light spears exploding as they pierced the hull, the brief but blinding micro-nova of the ship's reactor detonation—all these lights alternated, turning the dome of the Network Hub into a constantly changing curtain. The light flowed across the fractured surfaces of the wreckage, like molten metal being repeatedly cast. Beneath that curtain, thousands of shipwrecks were slowly and silently dissipating. Some were still burning, their dark red embers slowly creeping along the broken keel; some had cooled into twisted metal tombstones, their edges still bearing the molten bullet marks left by the previous round of artillery fire; and some were slowly disintegrating, their armor plates peeling off piece by piece like flaking skin, silently tumbling in the vacuum.

The battlefield was almost divided into two levels. In orbit, the fleets of Chaos and the fleets of the Empire were locked in a fierce struggle, neither able to spare a hand to attack the other's ground forces—all ships and combat aircraft were pinned to the airspace. This was why they were rarely seen on other fronts.

The chaotic fleets continued to pour in, and their numbers only increased. Countless fleets were driven, pushed, and crushed through the expanding rift by the same will. The blood feuds that usually festered between them were now suppressed by a shared hunger, leading them toward the same throat.

The massive ram of the Vengeance Soul thrust forward first, its dark adamantite tip gleaming with a metallic sheen corroded by warp deposits in the cold psionic light. Behind it, emerging from the depths of the rift were not only Black Legion cruisers. The Deathguard's plague fleet followed closely—rusted hulls covered in proliferating organic matter, pustules pulsating slowly on the armor plating, dark green mist seeping from the hull's cracks, condensing into tiny ice crystals in the vacuum. World Eater assault ships squeezed into the airspace from the flanks, their bows welded with crudely made rams, like a pack of hounds eager to tear into the ground, each movement tracing a rough arc in their trajectory. Further away, the Red Corsair fleet lurked—ships painted in deep red and black, their bows and sterns covered in the weld marks of trophies—they were in no hurry to charge the Imperial defenses, as if waiting for the perfect hunting window. The Abyss Servant's Hades-class cruiser cruised along the edge of the fleet, its captain waiting for the right moment to break away from the Black Legion's ranks and plunder the wreckage of the torn Imperial ships.

Behind them, the rift continued to spew forth something even heavier. A mobile fortress was slowly squeezing through the rift, countless fragments of ships welded to the skeleton of a battleship, crudely made force field generators crackling on the surface, like a fortress welded to the hull. Several wrecked spaceships followed closely behind, colossal monsters composed of countless debris casting irregular shadows in the cold psionic light, each fissure flickering with the welding sparks of green-skinned stowaways and the candlelight of the Chaos Cultist altar. They did not belong to Karasta; the captains did not want to enter this rift. But their will overcame their judgment.

Abaddon sat on the bridge throne of the Soul of Vengeance. He could feel them. The psionic weight pressing down from the depths of the rift felt like a thick layer of grease lining the inside of his skull. Every time he considered "retreat" or "wait and see," the option grew heavier, farther away, and more impossible. They wanted him to charge in. They wanted him to bite the Empire's bait.

They didn't care how many of his fleets he would lose, how much his plans would be disrupted, or what price he would pay. They only wanted him to enter Karasta, to sail the Soul of Vengeance into that airspace illuminated by the psionic energy of the web, so that their gaze could see more and more through his eyes.

Abaddon knew the Empire was luring him in. He didn't care. But he knew the Four were also luring him in, and that mattered. He had watched for ten thousand years through the Eye of Terror, seen the Emperor's psionic spectrum projected in the warp—a dark golden light slowly, irreversibly expanding outward, like a solidifying golden shell enveloping the skeleton of the Web. The Four saw it as an opportunity. They saw the Web being repaired, saw the Emperor rising from his golden throne, saw the rift narrowing. They thought it was the Empire's moment of victory, and they wanted to crush everything before victory was complete.

But Abaddon saw something else. The pattern of the dark golden light wasn't healing; it was cracking.

Each pulse was more erratic than the last, like someone who had been holding their breath for too long finally unable to continue. The Four Gods saw an opportunity. Abaddon saw a rift—a rift being torn open from the inside. They wanted him to rush in, thinking it was a hunt. But he rushed in because he wanted to know what lay on the other side of that rift. He was using bait; the Empire was using it too. The Chaos Gods were using it as well. Throughout the entire sky, everyone involved in the battle was trading their lives for others. Abaddon didn't care about the lives of those warbands; they were expendable anyway. But the Soul of Vengeance was beneath his feet. He wouldn't hand this ship over to any god.

His gaze returned to the holographic projection. The red markers were converging. The Imperial fleet's lines were tightening. He saw the gap, the fissure being torn open by his hounds.

"Spread out your formation," his voice descended from the throne. "Let those bastards go first."

The Imperial defenses were bearing an unimaginable weight. Fleet commanders had ceased calculating casualty ratios. The massive gun arrays of the Ramiris-class starfortresses were beginning to show signs of barrel melting amidst the relentless roar—servant sergeants scrambled up the turret bases, scalding the red-hot metal, removing the glowing barrels, replacing them with cooled spares, and repeating the process over and over again. Imperial cruisers formed multi-layered rings around the starfortress. The outermost layer of ships had already been completely replaced—the first batch sunk within the first few hours of the battle. The second took their place. The third was on standby. On average, each ship took less than a few hours from entering the combat zone to being sunk. The rescued crew were crammed into the next standby ship and then sailed back into that borderland of alternating fire and darkness.

A Chaos cruiser was pierced by a beam of light; its force field barrier collapsed under the sustained barrage, and the reactor, exploding from within, tore the ship in two. But even as the two halves of the wreckage spun, another Chaos frigate surged through its shattered embers, its bow wedging into the side of an Imperial light cruiser. The two ships became entangled, and Chaos boarding parties poured in from the point of impact, the sounds of explosive gunfire and the hum of chainswords echoing through the narrow passage. Neither side retreated—to retreat meant being crushed by the ships behind. As the wreckage of the light cruiser was finally engulfed in flames, its captain, at the last moment, triggered a reactor self-destruct, erasing the intruders along with himself from reality. But that was just one of countless fireballs, quickly swallowed by even more flames.

In the narrow gap between the Starfortress and the cruiser—a gap in the barrage of fire, and the only space where movement was still possible—the stranglehold of fighter groups never ceased. Chaos Hellblade fighters and Imperial Navy Stormfighters constantly met, separated, and met again in that gap. Every second, planes exploded; every second, Imperial pilots ejected. Those pilots twisted by Chaos sat in their aircraft without pressure suits, letting the vacuum tear their skin, letting their blood boil, congeal, and then boil again—a blessing of Chaos that kept them from stopping pulling the trigger until death. A Hellblade was hit, spinning as it crashed into the armor of an Imperial cruiser, exploding in a fireball—

The fireball was then engulfed by more flashes of light over a larger area.

The rift in the network continued to expand. More Chaos ships were pouring in. A Black Legion's main fleet spread out in the center, forming a battle line spanning tens of thousands of kilometers. The Death Guard's Plague fleet billowed a corrosive mist on the left flank, while the World Eaters' assault ships anxiously awaited the charge signal on the right. The Red Pirates' fleet still hovered at the edge. Their weapon systems were warming up, the macrogun barrels glowing a dark red glow in the darkness. The Vengeful Spirit's broadside macrogun array began to fire volleys—massive shells exploded against the void shields of the Ramiris-class starcaster, creating ripples of energy that spread outwards. Each volley meant more ships were burning.

But that's exactly what Guilliman wanted.

On the command platform of the eastern wing of Karasta, the Imperial Regent stood before a holographic projection table, a map of the entire war zone displayed before him. His finger traced several key points, adjusting the pace of the defensive line's contraction. Behind him, staff officers were updating the fleet's damage data at an extremely high frequency. The numbers on the screen flickered incessantly, each second a new red marker disappearing—the sign of yet another Imperial ship sunk. The Ultramarines fleet had arrived several days earlier, replenishing the Ramiris-class starfortress defenses with new firepower, but that had only temporarily halted the rout.

"East Wing Third Ramiris Star Fortress, Void Shield overload 70%. Requesting withdrawal."

"turn down."

The staff officer's fingers paused on the panel for a moment, as if waiting for a reason. But Guilliman didn't provide one.

"Move the reserves from the second line of defense to the outskirts of the third star fortress. Fill the gaps."

"Your Excellency, the Chaos Fleet is continuously pouring in from the rift, far exceeding our expectations. Our fleet has already suffered losses—the Fifth Cruiser Squadron has lost 7% of its ships, and the First Destroyer Group is being reduced to a much smaller force."

"I know."

Guilliman's voice didn't rise. His self-beam remained locked on the slowly moving dots of light on the projection. The Imperial fleet was retreating in stages, each retreat precisely calculated—not too fast, or the Chaos fleet would become alert; not too slow, or the lines would crumble. He wanted Abaddon to see the Empire in retreat, to see victory seemingly within reach. The three Ramiris-class starcastles on the outer edge of the defensive line had already been abandoned, each abandonment allowing the Chaos fleet to advance a bit, and each advance making their formation more scattered and deeper into the enemy territory.

"Let the outer layer of the defense line continue to retreat in sections."

The staff officer's finger paused on the panel. "Your Excellency, if we allow the Chaos Fleet to continue its advance, we will lose control of the eastern flank of the Network Nexus."

"That's what we need to do—let them in." Guilliman's gaze remained fixed on the projection. "I want them all in. The time to close the door isn't here yet, but it's approaching."

The staff officer asked no further questions. The order had been given. The Imperial fleet's lines crumbled once more, like a dam being breached by a tidal wave, retreating further under the continuous onslaught. The Chaos fleet, like a swarm of sharks smelling blood, accelerated its rush into the breach.

Guilliman doesn't need to actively split them; the gap itself is the best bait. The warbands will soon start fighting each other for loot and positions, and the rift will naturally become apparent.

In the minutes that the outer layer of the defensive line was torn open, an Imperial light cruiser was retreating. Embedded in its side armor were fragments of a Chaos frigate—the frigate had driven its ram into the cruiser's armor belt during the impact, then been ripped in two by the explosion of the macro cannon, the front half embedded in the Imperial hull, the rear half already scattered in the vacuum. But the boarding party had already entered. Chaos cultists poured in through the breach, fanatics in patchwork armor, wielding bombardiers and energy weapons, engaging Imperial sailors in close combat in the corridors. The passageways inside the warship were cut off, sealed off, and repeatedly contested. An Imperial boarder crouched behind the wreckage of a melted-down airlock door, his left arm burned off below the elbow by an energy weapon, styptic sealant applied to the wound, a bombardier pressed against the doorframe, firing continuously, the muzzle flashes a reddish-orange in the dim corridor. Behind him, a young communications soldier crouched at the corner of the corridor, pressed against the wall.

The bridge command came through the communicator: "Abandon ship. Evacuate the entire ship." Chaos cultists were still pouring into the passageway ahead, and through the cuts in the armor plates, the Chaos fleet's fire could be seen continuously covering friendly lines in the distance. The boarding party member glanced at the communications boy reciting the Emperor's prayer, his voice trembling. He didn't speak. He took the last grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, placed it on the frame inside the airlock, and pressed it down. The communications boy's voice still echoed in the communication channel before it cut off. Under the cover of fire from the Ramiris-class Starfortress, the light cruiser accelerated away from the combat zone, its exhaust trail leaving a thin blue streak in the vacuum. Behind it, the Chaos fleet was pouring into the gap, but the gap was being precisely, inch by inch, narrowed by Guilliman. On the ship's hull, the wedged wreckage remained embedded in the armor belt; no more people were emerging from the boarding passageway. The edge of the crack on the hull was still slowly cooling, silently leaving behind tiny specks of light as it sailed.

Not far behind him, the encrypted signal of General Mars Forging lit up on the communications array. Guilliman's gaze briefly swept over the communication request on the holographic platform, but he didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the density curve of the surging Chaos fleet, then at the remaining thickness of the Ramiris-class Starfortress defenses, and then at another line of data: the estimated arrival time of the Iron Hand fleet towards the Webgate was rapidly approaching. He needed to wait. Wait for the Chaos to penetrate a little deeper, wait for the Iron Hand to reach the Webgate, wait for General Mars Forging to complete the final confirmation of fleet deployment. Then—close the gate.

The main fleet of the Steel Hands was approaching the Netway Gate. A dozen battleships and dozens of escort ships advanced at close formation speed, the Steel Hands insignia gleaming coldly on either side of their bows. From Mandeville Point to the Netway Gate, they wasted no time on any tactical maneuvers—they simply pushed forward, at full speed, the blue-white exhaust trails of their thrusters leaving parallel, inextinguishable streaks in the darkness.

On the flagship's bridge, Gabriel Santo stood at the head of the column—one of the Ironfathers of the Avignon clan, commanding the advance force before Chapter Master Cardan Stenos arrived with the main force. His face had been largely replaced by machinery, leaving only a ring of skin around his voice-activated microphone. Behind him stood two rows of Avignon Morlock Terminators, their Terminator armor etched with the clan's emblem. Santo's gaze was fixed on the massive doorway—the cold light of psionic energy pulsating steadily along its edge, like a repeatedly traversed passage, each pass leaving a faint burn mark on the frame. He uttered only one word over the communication channel: "Enter."

The formation quickly completed the crossing sequence.

The broken network framework is being pried open again. Every time Cohen disembarks to repair it during the voyage, he is creating a wider path for the Imperial fleet's rapid maneuverability.

In the cold, psionic light, the Black Pearl was advancing at breakneck speed. Cohen's consciousness continued to extend deeper into the walls of the net tunnel—

The shockwaves from Karasta's artillery fire were being transmitted through the mesh framework to this tunnel millions of kilometers away. He could feel the low-frequency pulsations, like the breath of a behemoth pressing down on every lattice of the sacred bone structure. The pulsations were constantly changing, sometimes as dense as a torrential downpour, sometimes as sparse as the heartbeat of a dying man, but they never truly ceased.

The Emperor's voice returned. His consciousness shattered into countless fragments: some complete sentences, some mere fragmented impressions, some unfinished data streams, and others psionic echoes collected over millennia of observation—echoes that even He Himself had not fully deciphered. Like a string stretched taut for millennia, He began to vibrate violently the moment it was released. Some fragments were navigational instructions directly pointing to Cohen, others were words spoken to Himself, like someone talking to themselves in an empty room, unsure if anyone could hear them.

"————Number Thirteen———— Awakening confirmed. Template—successfully. It is replicating my architecture. Including flaws. Must be fixed. Until then, let it expend its energy on the battlefield."

He paused, as if rereading the data he had just spoken, then resumed in a different tone—this time, He spoke to Cohen: "The underlying protocol of the Internet—the design of the Ancients—is perfect." He paused, as if rereading that data, "No, not perfect. We could have done better. I could have—"

Then He returned to the main point, like a pointer suddenly calibrated: "Turn left. At the next intersection—" He paused, as if recalibrating, "—Don't go straight. That leads to Gamor. Human timescales—never mind, take that side road and repair the third breach—the stress buildup there is almost at its limit."

Cohen didn't argue. He corrected the course, making a note on the data panel; the Emperor's guidance would save the Black Pearl a tremendous amount of trial and error time. The Black Pearl turned, entering a narrower passageway. The cracks in the walls of the sacred bone were widening, and dark purple warp deposits slowly seeped from them. Cohen stood up and walked towards the airlock. He told Marcus, "Stop for twenty minutes," then donned his power armor and stepped out of the hatch.

He stood before the sacred bone wall, and the field unfolded. His consciousness touched it, and the decomposition command was issued. The dark purple deposit was stripped away at the atomic level, transforming into a harmless cloud of atoms that flowed into the warehouse. Then he began to reshape the fibers of the sacred bone, which regrowed from the crack's edge, the boundary membrane spreading across the surface, and the psionic energy channels beginning to pulsate faintly on the wall again. He returned to the ship, removed his helmet, and Marcus asked on the channel, "Director, shall we continue?" He replied, "Continue." The Black Pearl continued its journey.

The Emperor was simultaneously managing countless threads of command of the fleet at the front lines, sensing every fluctuation of the rift beneath the Golden Throne, sending out interstellar broadcasts, and speaking to Him. His consciousness was like a beam of light split into countless strands, each burning in a different direction. Interspersed among the surging fragments of consciousness were scenes of the battlefield—an Imperial cruiser, in its final moments before self-destruction, a young voice reciting the Emperor's prayers through its bridge communicator; a Chaos boarding squadron trapped in the passageways of a Ramiris-class fortress, the muzzle flashes of explosives illuminating faces in the darkness, Imperial soldiers and traitorous warriors exchanging fire at a distance of less than two thousand meters until one side fell completely.

Those images were transmitted by the Emperor. He knew ten thousand years ago that the sacred structure of the Web of Destiny could transmit information, and he stuffed those fragments into Cohen's consciousness—those images didn't need his processing, only his seeing. Cohen suppressed those images in a corner of his memory and continued to correct his course. He didn't need his empathy; He needed him to continue working.

Marcus turned his head from the tactical console on the bridge. "Captain, the course correction has been recorded. This is the thirteenth correction, and the roadmap is taking shape."

"Keep moving forward, keep up the pace." Cohen's voice came from the porthole of the private workshop. "There are still two sections to deal with. I'll go down and handle them then."

Sera's voice came from the navigation pod, carrying the ethereal echo unique to psionicists: "Heading locked. The next tunnel will be reached in four hours. Based on the guidance and available data, this route is being verified as a reliable path."

The indicator lights on the Thinker's mainframe flashed at a fixed frequency in the corner of the bridge, and each set of instructions was processed, recorded, and archived.

The first long-range route map of the Network is taking shape, showing a complete path from Karata to Garros. The structural status of every section of the tunnel and every break that needs repair is being recorded line by line. This route map will be one of the core technological assets of the Empire in regaining control of the Network.

In the seventh week of the voyage, Cohen disembarked for the third time to repair the net channel. In the eighth week, he did so a fourth time. Each repair involved shortening that section of the channel.

Several weeks later, the Black Pearl's sensor array captured its first familiar signal—the Eternal Bulwark.

It anchored in the familiar network hub, the thirty-kilometer-long behemoth gleaming with a dim golden sheen in the cold, psionic light. Cohen had the Black Pearl briefly dock beside it. The Emperor's consciousness became intensely active in that moment, like someone suddenly spotting something familiar in a dimly lit room.

"That ship—I've used a similar design. No, not mine. It was—I forgot. An early version—its frame was too thick, a waste of materials. But the defensive layer—that thing was good. Where did you get it?" His voice came from near and far, like a communicator with an unstable signal. "Mass production. Karasta needs more. Abaddon has more ships than we thought."

That structure—the boundary membrane. Effective.

Cohen ignored the last few sentences. In the dock of the Eternal Fortress, several engineering servitors were maintaining its hull armor. He didn't board the ship, but merely confirmed that it was still operational, then ordered the Black Pearl to continue forward; Garros was not far off.

The Emperor's consciousness persisted throughout the voyage, sometimes delivering precise navigational commands, sometimes fragmented memories. He mentioned "Number Ten"—"Number Ten—return confirmed. Skeleton—complete. Reconstruction protocol initiated." He mentioned "Number Five"—"Number Five—awaiting signal. In the darkness—waiting." Then, at certain moments, His voice would suddenly drop, fading into an almost inaudible whisper, as if speaking to himself, or perhaps to someone not present. Cohen did not respond to the fragments. He meticulously recorded every detail of the navigational corrections on the data panel, maintaining an awareness of the field's boundaries in his consciousness, nodding as Marcus reported the navigation parameters. He only needed him to continue working.

A day later, the port of Garros came into view.

The Black Pearl docked at its berth, and Cohen, Marcus, and others disembarked one after another, heading through the passageway to Garros's main gate at the node within the network.

The emperor's voice rang out again, carrying a chill that transcended ordinary words. "This door—is narrow."

There was a pause. As if confirming something. "Restrict expansion."

Cohen answered on a conscious level: "The ancient design has boundaries that cannot be broken. It can only be maintained and repaired."

"Then we have no choice but to—" The Emperor's voice trailed off for a moment before returning, "Near Garros. Establish a gateway. Search the surrounding star systems. Establish regular shipping routes—reduce dependence."

He paused. As if he were calibrating the weight of a word.

"—Not allowed in the subspace." The voice trailed off, almost inaudible. "You."

A moment of silence. The chill receded from the flow of her voice, like a tide washing away from a beach. What remained was more ancient, more stable, like a layer of rock that had been pressed down for too long, slowly returning to its place.

"The expansion of the network—it must continue. There's only one route now. That's not enough," He said. "Your technology—"

A complete system. Once this war is over—the complete network. The Misty Starfield. The Eastern Starfield. The Pivot. "Sleeve's voice broke through the turbulent gap, reconnecting the line. "The Tau. That expeditionary line. Laying it out in the past—before that timeline arrives—extinguishing all risks."

Cohen recognized the continuity in that passage. Before this, the Emperor's voice had always been fragmented, alternating with different tones, like echoes surging from the depths of a fissure, each vying for the same vocal cord. But in that last speech, those pauses vanished, as if shattered iron had been reheated, hammered, and forged back into a single piece. He had forcefully suppressed the voice that was trying to replace Him, speaking a complete and clear statement.

Then silence. The Emperor's consciousness receded from the edge of Cohen's perception, like a piece of scorched iron sinking into ice water, cooling abruptly and leaving no echo. The fragments of consciousness that had lingered for weeks, pouring in continuously, finally dissipated. Cohen stood in the center of the network-connected cabin, feeling that emptiness—the Emperor's voice was gone, but His instructions remained. "Wait until this war is over," those words anchored deep within Cohen's consciousness.

The ripples of void from the Bone Arch receded behind them. The group passed through the net portal and returned to Garros 0 in the real universe.

The Greenskins were already getting excited. Their fleet was almost upon them on the battlefield of Karata. The smell was seeping in through the cracks in the net, hot, coarse, acrid stench of gunpowder and metal. To them, it was fragrance.