Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 204 The Cyber ​​War (13) The Bells of Karasta

The Imperial Command Headquarters is located within the core bunker of the Mechanicus. The outer layer of the bunker is based on adamantite, covered with sacred bones. The psionic energy of the Web flows along the sacred bones, making the bunker and the Web walls a single entity. There is also a light golden membrane on the surface, which provides extremely strong defense while also isolating the spying of warp forces.

The Empire's military forces are simultaneously fighting on multiple fronts: the edge of the Nurgle Creep, the exit of the Slaanesh Rift, and the front of the Khorne Rift. Further away, new demonic armies continue to seep from the depths of the dark purple Chaos Rift, while around the bright blue Tzeentch Rift, space is warping and folding.

Guilliman stood on the high platform in the central hall. His short blond hair gleamed dimly in the cold light, and his face appeared gaunt from months of continuous command, but his eyes still maintained an almost cold clarity.

Hundreds of Imperial commanders stood in a semi-circular, tiered formation. On the holographic projection platform, situation markers for multiple battle lines updated simultaneously, each refresh consuming the computing power of an entire Thinker. The markers writhed at a visible speed; green advanced, red retreated, and then a new layer of red surged from its depths, pushing the green back to its original position. The cycle repeated endlessly, like a relentless forging hammer repeatedly hammering the same piece of iron. Data streams surged along the edge of the projection platform, each line being confirmed, updated, invalidated, and then confirmed again.

Guilliman stood there, interpreting the numbers from the holographic projection platform, converting them into commands, and then watching those commands translate into the movement trajectories of frontline ships and defenses.

In the tiered seating arrangement of the hall, representatives from all sides took their places. Trajan, the commander of the Imperial Guard, stood slightly behind Guilliman's left flank, his golden armor as somber as iron, the Watcher's Axe at his side. He was in charge of the Khorne front, listening silently, occasionally checking deployment coordinates.

Further to the right flank, the High Grand Master of the Grey Knights and Dante, Chapter Master of the Blood Angels, stood side by side. The Grey Knights' Terminator armor was etched with silver holy symbols, while Dante's crimson armor gleamed with a dark, somber light. The Tzeentch Front was jointly defended by the Grey Knights and the Blood Angels, with the Primal Forged Legion maintaining a sustained standoff and suppression at the front.

The high-ranking generals of the Astral Halo were positioned at the lower levels, commanding hundreds of mortal forces from the Halo clusters, bearing the heaviest losses on the ground defenses and in the direction of the Greenskins.

A holographic image of the Mars-Forged General floated on a dedicated platform to Guilliman's side and rear—a projection of his true form left at the forefront of the battle. A colossal steel structure, over ten meters tall, gleamed with a dark red afterglow in the cold psionic light. Several miniature volcano cannons surrounded the steel torso, their muzzles still retaining the residual heat of burning energy. Dozens of optical lenses were arranged in an arc-shaped array along the torso, all now locked onto the holographic projection platform. His voice carried the resonant tail notes characteristic of the highest levels of the Mechanicus, pressed into the metal lattice, each utterance creating a brief, high-frequency tremor in the air.

His voice echoed across the command platform: "The advance on the Nurgle front is slowing. The Emperor's Legions are firmly pinned to the front, and the traitorous archdemons have been driven back multiple times. On the Khorne front, the Custodians are the main force, the front is solid, and there is no need to worry. On the Slaanesh front, the Titans are maintaining the pressure—they have suffered heavy losses, but the defenses are solid. On the Tzeentch front, the Grey Knights and the Astartes Chapter are the backbone, the Primitive Legion continues the stalemate, and there are frequent disturbances. The only problem is on the Greenskin front—currently, only the Mortal Legions can take over. The Astragalus are already at their limit and have halted the transport of State Pilgrims. Their sacrifice is of no benefit to the battlefield."

Guilliman's hand paused at the edge of the holographic projection, but didn't interrupt. He waited for the pause to fall naturally where it should.

Mars Forging General continued, "The Imperial Navy's main force is currently engaged in battle with the Chaos Fleet, and the battlefield is rapidly depleting resources—whether on our side or against the Empire's enemies. Mars needs to commit more resources to the Greenskin front."

When those words were spoken, no one in the central hall responded. The numbers themselves spoke for themselves. The Greenskins' position was the most troublesome weak point, and the delay in reinforcements was backfiring on the entire battle. These facts needed no embellishment.

The Martian-forged general's steel torso tilted slightly, and dozens of optical lenses simultaneously adjusted their focus, locking onto Guilliman's direction. His voice reactivated, the last syllable trembling with the edge of overload: "Your Excellency, the ground forces of the Steel Hand are ready."

Guilliman did not respond immediately. He paused for a moment, without turning around. "The Iron Hand's fleet has been incorporated into the Imperial Navy's command structure, tasked with boarding and counter-boarding missions, and its available ground forces are limited."

"The Greenskins' direction." The Martian Forging General paused, and the cooling vents on the side of his torso briefly glowed with a dark red aura. "The pressure continues to build. In the early stages, Mars deployed 30 million armed servants to the Greenskins' front—the Greenskins were injected with a WAAAGH! force field far exceeding the normal intensity in the network rifts—the operation lasted less than a standard day, all wet parts were lost, and not a single one was recovered. Previously, we relied entirely on the continuous deployment of the Astral Army to maintain the balance, but the balance is extremely fragile. Reinforcements from the various Forging Worlds are limited. We need faster replenishment channels."

He shifted to a lower position, where dozens of optical lenses were locked onto an Astronaut general. The man's uniform was covered in dust, his face hunched from exhaustion after continuous fighting, his shoulder insignia etched with the 12th Army's emblem, and his left arm in a sling—clearly he had just been withdrawn from the Greenskin front. "The 12th Army's assessment—the Titan Cluster is crucial for maintaining the front." The Mars Forging General's voice remained unchanged, but his wording was more direct than before. "How long can you hold out? The Titan Cluster is a strategic reserve mobile across various battlefields; it cannot be tied down to one place."

The general looked up, his voice hoarse, but each word was spoken with firm precision: "We can only maintain a stalemate. The orc corpses are piled up to waist-high on the bunkers—we've rebuilt firing positions on top of them. But rear support is lagging behind, and ammunition consumption is twice what we anticipated at launch. Casualties need to be replenished, but the entire theater is scrambling for the same batch of reinforcements. Over fifty percent of the traffic through the network gates is troop transport ships, with the remainder being logistics." He paused. "We can hold on, but not for long. We must completely isolate the Greenskins' Warmoon from the ground battlefield."

The Mars Forged General's torso turned back towards Guilliman, and the voice boomed again, the trailing tone carrying the low, resonant harmonics characteristic of an overloaded cooling system: "The pressure on the Greenskin Front is evolving from a tactical gap into a strategic crisis. The Mars Titan Cluster has been continuously bogged down, and this node is nearing its critical point."

"I'll go."

A deep voice came from the doorway of the hall. The voice carried the rough texture of millennia of death and reshaping, like the last hum of a piece of iron that had been repeatedly forged and was cooling.

The Emperor's tenth son, Feralus Manus, entered through the doorway. His physique was exceptionally robust among all Primarchs, short, iron-grey hair falling over his forehead. His hands, extending from wrists to fingertips, were covered in a layer of newly formed, dark silver living metal—a lighter color and less dense texture than he remembered, ten thousand years ago. The new body was slowly and irreversibly growing the marks of the past. His metallic hands clenched slightly at his sides, like two weapons yet to be fully tempered.

Behind him followed four Morlock Terminators, their Kataflakhti-type armor etched with the Iron Hand Legion's gear and anvil insignia, silently guarding him.

Guilliman looked at Felus. The last time he saw that face was on the death report of the Istvan 5. He had listed Felus as one of the "Four Fearless Warriors," his four most trusted brothers in times of extreme hardship. Felus's death was one of his deepest losses during the Horus Rebellion.

"My brother, are you sure?"

"The Greenskins were the enemies of the Tenth Legion during the Great Crusade." Feralus's voice didn't rise, but each word was like a hammer striking an anvil, deliberate, brief, crisp, and devoid of rhetoric. "I crushed their war leaders, I flattened their war moon. I swear."

Guilliman paused for a moment. "Alright. Twenty thousand Proto-Forged Space Marines will be transferred to the Iron Hand. The Iron Hand's fleet will immediately withdraw from the Chaos Front and return to your command, whereby you will be fully responsible for suppressing the Greenskin War Moon and its ground forces."

The forces of the Armageddon theater will also be under your command. Your mission load will be several times that of conventional Primarch-level operations.

At this moment, a general in the front row of the lower ranks stepped forward. Sebastian Arrek, the Chief Political Commissar of the Armageddon Sector, the Emperor-appointed commander, leading billions of Astragalus soldiers from that sector—one of the Empire's most experienced generals in fighting the Orks over the past century. He placed his right fist against his chest, first saluting Felus, then turning to Guilliman: "Your Excellency, the Armageddon Sector's fleet is ready outside the Netway Gates. My men are ready for battle at any time."

Felus nodded slightly, gesturing for him to follow, without saying anything more. He turned and walked towards the door. The Morlock Terminators silently formed a guard formation, their Katafrakti-type armored figures landing on the ground like four moving watchtowers. The hands, now covered in living metal, hung at their sides, each step carrying an unshakeable weight. Arek and his dozens of accompanying officers followed behind the Tenth Primarch, filing out in single file.

Guilliman's beam of light lingered for a moment on Feralas's silhouette before returning to the holographic projection platform. His finger traced a path on the platform, pushing a newly marked supply line to the logistics department's terminal. "Transportation Line Issue—The Empire will open a new supply line." This supply line didn't point to the solar system's network gate, but rather extended towards a light-level network interface, culminating in a new green marker: "Vos."

"Your Excellency, are you saying that Voss will be connecting to the Webway? Furthermore, is this channel secure? The Dark Eldar control the Webway; using it rashly would be extremely risky," an Imperial Navy logistics admiral interjected. "Also, halting the pilgrims was the right decision. They would only block the transport route."

Guilliman surveyed the entire room, his tone calm and firm: "Yes. Garros has already confirmed the existence of a usable Webgate node in the Vos system. A Gate-class Webgate has already sailed to Vos and will begin deployment upon arrival. At that time, we will have a stable strategic transport line. As for the threat from the Dark Eldar Gamor, it will be eliminated from the strategic level in the coming months."

The meeting continued, and the various factions' understanding of the Network Path was gradually deepening, which was part of Guilliman's strategy. Highly classified information such as the training of navigators and star speakers in the Network Path, Garros's Gate-class Network Path ships, and Garros's navigation ships were being repeatedly mentioned and discussed.

On the Greenskin battlefield, dozens of light-years away, the fighting never stopped from the very beginning.

Inside the command sanctuary of the "Eternal Judgment," the temperature approached fifty degrees Celsius. The cooling system was operating at full capacity, yet it couldn't withstand the heat accumulated from continuous firing. Mika Oleg—the captain of the Martian Titan Order—had been fighting continuously on the battlefield of Karasta for weeks. Sitting on the mechanical throne, his forehead, back of the neck, and palms were drenched in sweat. The air he inhaled felt like it was being forced through scalding pipes, carrying the acrid smell of metal and evaporating sweat. Behind him, two coordinators sat at their respective control consoles; one was responsible for navigation and attitude stabilization, while the other monitored the energy distribution curves of the weapon arrays. The six mechanical arms of the Tech-Priest Karl extended from beneath his robes, two of them connected to data interfaces on the bulkhead, continuously reading the machine's soul status.

The psychic shock unit cable at the back of Mika's head continuously transmitted data, the mainframe merging his consciousness with the Titan's machine spirit. The machine spirit's will, like a wall pressing against the inside of the skull, was breathing. That wall had warmth, weight, and occasionally pushed outwards, like a chained beast turning over in its sleep. Mika continuously output pulses of taming will, suppressing that violent impulse beyond the boundaries of his consciousness. He had served in the Martian Titan Order for nearly a century, his service record filling his file. He had seen the green-skinned tides flood the defenses, seen them relentlessly surge towards the Titan's leg armor.

But Karata is different. The greenskins here were directly delivered via the WAAAGH! force field, and as they passed through the rift in the net, they were infused with a more ferocious will, as if driven by something, forever charging forward, forever moving forward.

He simply gripped the joystick, staring at the fire control data, maintaining the firing rhythm. The outside world, transmitted through the mainframe, saw crudely made shells explode against the Titan's void shield—the green-skinned WAAAGH! Force fields and psionic energy clashed violently, exploding into clusters of gray-green sparks on the armor plates: the footsteps of the Ancient Giants echoed through the sacred bone walls, each step like a heavy hammer pounding the ground; further away, the shadow of the war moon stretched across the entire battlefield. It was a perception more primal than sight—like standing in a dark room, able to feel the presence of a wall, its weight altering the flow of air.

Meanwhile, Mika's own fear and exhaustion were seeping into the depths of the machine spirit's consciousness through that connection. The machine spirit didn't respond to those emotions, but it knew they were there. It suppressed them with its ancient, mountain-like steadiness, like a layer of cooling embers covering lava.

The "Eternal Judgment" was engaged in battle with a column of Orks' Ancient Colossi. Seven Ancient Colossi, arranged in a loose line, advanced at a slow but unstoppable pace. They varied in form; some stood tens of meters tall, their bodies welded with armor plates salvaged from Imperial warships, their force field barriers pulsating irregularly on their surfaces, like a flame that could be extinguished at any moment; others had massive mortars welded to their shoulder armor, their barrels as thick as secondary guns on warships, each shot leaving dense, orange-red trails in the cold light of psychic energy. The Titan swarm's firepower had suppressed them for several rounds, but the Orks' force field barriers were coarse and unpredictable—sometimes a single plasma bullet could tear them apart, sometimes several were deflected, as if the force field itself was contemplating that it shouldn't have shattered. These behemoths continued their advance under the fire, their gray-green WAAAGH! The force field pulsating irregularly on their armored surfaces, like a flame that could be extinguished and reignited at any moment. Tech-Beast peeked out from the gap in the ancient giant's torso, his welding torch still smoking, and roared at the Imperial front with his green-skinned howl, as tens of thousands of green-skinned lads charged after him.

One of the ancient giants was flanking the Titan front. It moved faster than the others, steam seeping from the exposed welds of its hydraulic lines on its legs, a force field barrier covering most of its torso, and unstable arcs of electricity emanating from the welds. Mika detected the moving trajectory in his machine soul perception—a gray-green WAAAGH! The force field was grinding against the psionic channeling patterns on the sacred bone wall, like a layer of rough grease covering the surface of the spirit bone, the pulse of the sacred bone gradually weakening wherever it passed. The green-skinned boys ran after it in the shadow of its leg armor, the muzzle flashes of their rifles forming a patch of orange-red light in the dim, cold psionic glow.

He turned to the flank; the heat readings of the plasma annihilation cannon were climbing. The dark red glow of the cooling grates had been burning for a while, and the hum of the cooling pumps was approaching critical frequency. He locked onto the midsection of the ancient colossus's torso and pulled the trigger. A beam of blazing white plasma spanned several kilometers, exploding in the center of the ancient colossus's torso. WAAAGH! The force field fluctuated violently at the point of impact, and the electric arc crackled under the continuous plasma heat. The force field barrier lasted less than two seconds, peeling away and dissipating like a layer of grease melted by the high temperature. The beam pierced through the ancient colossus's torso; the armor plates collapsed inward from the point of impact, and the internal scrap metal structure disintegrated layer by layer under the thermal shock—welds burst, pipes melted. The ancient colossus's body exploded at the point of impact, the upper half tilting to one side, the lower half still sliding forward, and then the entire colossus knelt in the ruins.

But the green-skinned soldiers in the back row had already set up their firing lines again on the wreckage of their comrades, howling as they continued to surge forward.

"How much longer will the cooling cycle take?" he asked Carl in a hoarse voice over the communication channel.

The Tech Priest's six robotic arms bounced briefly on the bulkhead interface, emitting a short binary pulse, before replying in low Gothic: "We still need to wait. The residual heat from the cooling grids is still too high; forced cooling would cause lattice stress cracking."

Mika didn't rush him. He leaned back in his seat, letting the coolant flow through the armor plating in the circulation lines, carrying away the heat.

The temperature inside the command temple dropped slightly. He felt the will of the machine spirit briefly shift outwards at the edge of his consciousness, like a wall adjusting its posture in the intervals of a breath, before closing again. It wasn't tired; it was simply confirming his continued presence before continuing. The occasional surge of irritation that would push him back was weaker at this moment, as if the wall had briefly relaxed by a degree.

During this brief respite, Mika, through the observation window on the side of the command temple, saw the advancing Ascendant ranks in the distance. The Leman Rustank phalanx continued its advance along the edge of the Ork lines, dense artillery fire tearing gaps in the grey-green tide of Orks. The Volstoan Firstborn followed closely behind, their brass breastplates gleaming dimly in the cold psionic light. A barrage of laser guns cleared brief gaps in the Ork lines, only to be filled by the surging Orks behind them. The Ork counterattack followed, artillery fire covering their positions, the lines briefly disappearing before reforming in the smoke, continuing to protect the Titans' advance.

Mika looked away and gripped the control stick again. The cooling system indicator light flashed from red to dark green. He glanced at the fire control data and locked onto the next Gujuji approaching from the flank—it was larger than the previous one, with two crudely made macro cannon turrets welded to its shoulder armor, and a force field barrier covering most of its torso. He pulled the trigger.

The roar of the plasma annihilation cannon once again tore through the battlefield's screams. The temperature of the command temple rose again. The glow of the cooling grilles blazed from dark red to bright white. Mika felt his heartbeat travel back to his palm through the joystick—the mainframe was still running, the machine spirit was still responding, he was still here. In Karasta, being alive was already a victory.

>