Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 210 Pivot Gate Fortress 951.M41

Three Terran Standard Years have passed. The pale golden ark has not returned, and the remains of Gamor have slowly reformed amidst ashes and steel. The miniature star that hangs above this Web Nexus still burns, indiscriminately providing pale light to its inhabitants. Order grows here, like some kind of cold metallic moss, spreading along the broken base of the Spirit Spire, covering the edges of the former spire ruins, and finally solidifying into the right angles of the terracotta precast panels and the cold light of the streetlights.

Ulf stopped at the entrance to the maintenance passage on the second floor of the spire, secured the grip of the grenades to the wide mounting bracket, and pulled out the barrel to inspect the rifling. The movements were swift and efficient—removal, inspection, and repositioning—the entire process took less than ten seconds, without any unnecessary movements. He closed the bolt, slung it back over his waist, walked to the railing at the edge of the passage, and looked down at the main street below.

The main street was wide enough for four transport vehicles to travel side-by-side, with fire lanes marked in striking orange at the bends. The precast terracotta buildings on either side were arranged in a neat geometric grid, their facades painted with the Garros gear and skull emblem and the Imperial double-headed eagle. Every so often, a streetlamp cast a cold, white light, stretching the shadows of pedestrians straight and precise. Stalls were piled high with Garros-made synthetic starch blocks, spices brought by Dagonus merchants, and various household goods transported by the Valancius family. The air was thick with the smells of cooking oil, new paint, and the scorching odor of welding. Ulf had precisely measured the distance from where he stood to the newly installed terracotta gate at the end of the main street—nearly five kilometers. His defense zone, his 116th Regiment. A hundred-man squadron patrolled this route twice a day; he knew it better than the map on his data board. He knew which sidewalk had a passageway beneath the anti-slip grating, and which building's ground floor ventilation manhole cover connected to which section of the underground pipe network—the area where the remnants of the Dark Eldar loved to hide.

Three years ago, this place was nothing but ruins. The spires of the Dark Eldar lay piled among fragments of spirit bones, the empty edges left after the core city was stripped away gleaming a deathly gray in the pale twilight. When he first stood on this street, remnants of the Dark Eldar still roamed the shadows, and every few days a scream would echo from the depths of one of the uncleaned spires. Now he looked down at the people walking under the streetlights, at the price tags written in both Low Gothic and Binary on the shop fronts, and listened to the low rumble of transport truck engines in the distance. Standing there, he saw an order that had grown from the ruins over the past three years—rough, practical, and with the angularity unique to the world of forging.

The standard-bearer of the guard squad behind him held aloft the regimental flag, deep red, with the golden gear and skull emblem of Garros etched in the center, and the number "116" embroidered at the corners. This flag was personally handed to him by the great Temple Speaker, one of the noblest sages who forged the Temple of Garros. He had gripped the flagpole for a long time, his knuckles turning white from the fine gold. Wherever the flag was, there the commander was. Anyone who saw that flag knew this regiment had fought in hard-fought battles. This was the elite Guardian Army of Garros, worthy of such a sacred banner.

A patrol of White Scars swept low overhead, the exhaust plumes of their jet-powered motorcycles leaving blue trails in the twilight. The lead cavalryman flashed his signal light in his direction to indicate he was waiting. Ulme glanced over; the jet-powered motorcycles were already far away. White Scars had become a legion-level force here, with millions of mortal auxiliary troops alone, their patrol network covering every node of the main artery. The boundaries of their respective responsibilities in the city had been honed into a tacit understanding over three years of cooperation.

He turned and walked down to the next floor. His boots landed on the terracotta stairs, each step in his dark gold power armor landing precisely on the edge of the steps. His red cloak billowed in the wind. A guard squad, identically dressed, followed behind, a standard-bearer holding aloft the battle flag, while servo skulls provided vigilance in all directions. Passersby stopped and saluted him.

The city is still growing. The streets are expanding, shops are increasing, and transport routes are becoming more frequent. The patrol routes of the 116th Regiment are constantly expanding, as new blocks are being cleared, pipelines laid, and lighting installed. Every day, new caravans from the Imperial world arrive to stop over, set up offices, and bring with them large numbers of immigrants. The city is rebuilding itself from the ruins.

Hundreds of kilometers above the Spur Gate Fortress, the flow patterns on the walls of the Network Hub pulsated continuously, much more stable than after the crisis three years ago. The Pale Judgment's adamantite armor plates, riddled with shell craters and numerous repair marks—each scratch a testament to a fierce firefight—all spoke of the intensity and brutality of the war three years prior. Onris stood on the bridge, the blue circle of his right mechanical eye slowly moving on the tactical projection. The primary mission within the Network Hub was no longer merely "exploration," but "exploration plus mopping-up."

The network controlled by the Empire has fully recovered and is expanding rapidly. From Garros to the Sceptre Fortress, from the Sceptre Fortress to Chogris, from Garros to the outer nodes of Karasta—a discontinuous but usable corridor has taken shape. Hundreds and thousands of ships travel along this corridor every day, and the number is increasing exponentially. Navigation ships lead the way, Astrologers continuously transmit psionic communications along the network walls, and Garros' forces guard every important hub node. Garros continues to mass-produce Gate-class network ships, and now every month a new world is connected to the network, and every month a new network route is opened. This brings Garros huge profits—as the manager, maintainer, guide, and communicator, Garros collects passage fees. The Valancius family, on the other hand, has gained unimaginable wealth through this network, becoming the largest merchant ronin dynasty in the entire Empire. Their fleet spans the entire Empire, and their family's armed forces have expanded dozens of times in just three years, enough to easily conquer any single world. Its rapid growth forced Galloes to introduce several new merchant dynasties, creating effective checks and balances while maintaining trade prosperity. This former hub of Gamor—now known as the Fortress of Sculpture—became the convergence point of all this due to its natural geographical advantages.

"Reconnaissance squadron reporting." The communications officer's voice came from the flank, "Midway section of branch 0824, a chaotic infiltration defect has been discovered. It's not large, and is estimated to be a group of astral spirits infiltrating along the wall fissures. Squadron leader requests permission to handle it independently."

1

Without hesitation, Onris said, "Handle it yourself. Standard hunting protocol. Report any abnormalities."

"clear."

The routine clearing of the Webpaths has become a fixed procedure. White Scar's strike cruiser and light cruiser squadrons patrol in shifts along the main lines and major tributaries, semi-nomadically intermingling with the Imperial fleet to hunt down chaotic entities that emerge from the Webpath rifts. Their tactics have been honed over three years into a unique and sophisticated approach: guiding demons into pre-designated interception zones, blocking their escape routes, and then delivering the final blow at close range.

Anris turned off the tactical projection and turned to the porthole. The airflow patterns on the wall reflected a faint glow on the armor plate, and the silhouette of a navigation ship slowly passed by in the distance, its exhaust trail leaving a thin blue streak. A short pulse signal came through the communication channel—a White Scar patrol squadron was reporting a successful kill. Anris shifted his gaze to a new holographic projection, which showed the locations of the hundreds of portals that had once been part of Gamor. Nearly a hundred of them led to unexplored subdomains. According to the descriptions of prisoners and freed slaves, many of these subdomains were extremely important network ports, possessing massive network trunk lines leading to every corner of the galaxy. Many of the Dark Eldar's reinforcement fleets had arrived through these ports. Now they were hiding, with no trace of them throughout the entire Galactic Empire, all concentrated in these Gamor subdomains. Once Director Garros was free, they could simply open the portals and defeat them one by one.

In the upper administrative level of Spurgate Fortress, the air temperature is precisely maintained at the Imperial standard by a circulation system. The walls are adorned with adamantite plaques inlaid with the double-headed eagle emblem, and every ten paces a soldier stands in finely crafted shell armor brought from Terra, his entire body covered in thick terracotta plates, with the Imperial eagle emblem etched on his shoulder armor—the Kashejin Guard, one of the Empire's most elite mortal warriors, assigned to Spurgate Fortress by Guilliman.

The administrative building sits atop the spire, its massive armored glass window facing the central void of the city. Standing before it, one can see the miniature stars above the Nexus casting a pale halo under the cold, psionic light of the network. The city grid extends outward from the edge of the spherical void, the terracotta blocks that have sprung from the ruins spreading outward like a slowly solidifying halo.

Malta Aurelius von Schlager stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. A senior Imperial administrator, seventy-two years old, with gray hair, his left eye replaced by a standard-model mechanical prosthetic. He wore the standard dark blue administrative uniform of the Terran Ministry of the Interior, with the Imperial double-headed eagle insignia and the official badge of the Governor of the Spur Gate Fortress pinned to his collar. He had been standing by the window for a while, not looking at anything specific, but silently processing the latest monthly report. He had memorized those figures: all the revenue from the Webpath tolls went to the Garros Forging Temple; although the commercial tax at the Spur Gate Fortress was increasing, the tax rate and scope of collection were strictly limited by Garros; White Scar's Webpath clearing squadrons had repeatedly crossed the hub defense zone without his authorization, and when he sent someone to negotiate, they replied, "If there's a problem, contact our Primarch," and cut off communication; newly arrived Imperial transport ships needed to apply to the Garros garrison for berthing and resupply at Webpath ports, and the Garros garrison dispatcher replied, "Follow the procedure," with no highest priority.

He recalled the tone of Guilliman's voice two years earlier when he patted him on the shoulder and said, "Gammo is yours now. From now on, this place will be called Fort Sceptre"—the regent of that vast empire trusted him, a weight that no scepter could buy. Guilliman had given him a thousand elite Kashezin guards, a complete administrative system, and full authority over the Terran Ministry of the Interior—every document bore the imperial regent's seal of authorization. But here, trust didn't directly translate into efficiency. The fortress operated on a different logic than any other planetary governorate within the empire. In the Web, ships didn't traverse the warp, but they still needed to dock, resupply, and repair somewhere. The right to dock a ship, the right to allocate every shipment of supplies, the right to issue every permit were all linked to the ledgers of Garros and the armies of Chogris.

Footsteps sounded behind him. An assistant stood at attention in the doorway, right fist to his chest: "Governor, the next Imperial Navy transport ship will be resupplying here and is expected to arrive at the berth in six hours. The transport fleet has reported that one of its engine units requires a spare part replacement. The fleet commander has inquired whether a rapid repair can be completed at the dock at Spur Gate Fortress."

F

Malta turned around, his gaze lingering for a moment on the assistant's face before falling on the slowly rotating spherical void outside the window. He said, "Notify berth dispatchers to allocate windows for them. Maintenance dock dispatchers should follow standard allocation procedures. Tell Garros that this convoy is involved in the Carrasta transport mission, and not to delay."

"Yes." The assistant exited.

Malta turned back to the window. A thin layer of dust clung to the bulletproof glass in the wall, mingling with the ashes remaining from the ruins of Gamor. He knew his duty here: to transport necessary supplies to Terra at all costs, and more importantly, to transport troops from the Solar System.

The destruction of Karata is a matter of life and death for the Empire. Since the full implementation of the network transport system, Legion soldiers who would have suffered more than 30% attrition during warp travel and who would have disappeared into the Chaos Sea can now be truly delivered to the battlefields where they are needed.

But the value of the Webway goes far beyond that. Its strategic significance is so profound, so immense, that it could reshape the entire power structure of the Empire. Terra should possess more. And he could be the one to wield the Webway for Terra—provided he can pry open the gears between Garros and Chogris.

He turned and walked to his desk, his fingertips tracing the edge of an encrypted dossier. The Calithis fleet was a potential breakthrough. That surviving fleet still served Garros and Chagatai within the Web, but it was the Imperial Navy's power, and they were supposed to be loyal to the Empire. A new Calithis fleet was being rebuilt in the real universe, and if he could bind this force to control of the Web, he could weave a third pillar—the Imperial Navy's steel ruler—between Garros's ledgers and Chogris's military might.

Deep within the network, at the ends of those branch lines far from the main trunk, the guiding patterns on the walls have completely disappeared.

Cohen hovered in a nearly completely collapsed tunnel, his power armor's thrusters spewing out fine streams of ions to hold him directly in front of the fractured surface of the Sacred Bone Wall. Only his headlamp illuminated the surrounding darkness for several meters. The edges of the fracture were covered with a layer of dark purple crystals—chaotic energy that had seeped in, solidified, and deposited as the psionic energy of the Web Path receded, like a layer of rusted scales covering the ancient Sacred Bone, slowly spreading inch by inch into the depths of the intact wall.

The field unfolded. Consciousness reached it. The decomposition command was issued. The dark purple crystallization transformed into an atomic cloud at the atomic level, surging into the warehouse.

The fractured surfaces of the wall were exposed, and the crystalline structure of the sacred bone appeared as a fine, bone-like texture in the beam of the headlamp.

He began to reshape. New sacred bones grew from the edges of the fracture, and the psionic pathways reconnected at the atomic level.

The psionic energy from the network surged in along the newly established conduit, briefly illuminating the edge of the fracture before extending forward like a faint streak of light slowly creeping through the darkness. Cohen hovered beside the newly repaired wall. The damage caused by the suction from the Dark Eldar ancestor's engine three years ago was deeper than anticipated. His repair speed had barely kept pace with the network's collapse.

The communication light flashed. Dozens of kilometers behind, a Stormbird was approaching. Cohen boarded it, heading to the next node. Behind the Stormbird, the Black Pearl and the Truth maintained their tracking path. Marcus stood on the bridge, watching the Stormbird's outline through sensors. This was the seventh time in three years that the Black Pearl had taken turns escorting it. The Garros fleet was being rebuilt; fewer than ten capital ships remained, but better and stronger warships were being commissioned. The capital ships took turns escorting Cohen. Sometimes he would rest in the cabin for a while after the Stormbird flew into the hangar before setting off again. The cycle repeated itself. For three whole years, his repair progress had only slowed the collapse of the network; it was still far from restoring balance or for the network to heal itself. But at least, the network was not collapsing at an accelerated pace. This in itself was the only thing worth confirming.

Within the Prophet's Dome of the Ark World of Usvi, representatives from thirteen Ark Worlds, along with countless independent Arks, all connected via psionic projections. The debate centered on only one point: whether the agreement from Terra should be signed.

The representative of Bier-Tan stood at the center of the dome, the light of the psionic projection burning around him. The edge flickered briefly the moment a certain word was uttered—a trace of emotional fluctuation affecting the psionic projection—before stabilizing again. "The Empire wants us to sign a surrender document. They want us to acknowledge that the Webpaths belong to humanity, and that the Eldar are merely a race that 'travels within the Webpaths.' Once we sign, we will no longer be the masters of the Webpaths. Those corridors, those passages, those paths flowing in our blood, will all be branded with the Empire's double-headed eagle mark."

The representative from Iyndon stood on the opposite side, his voice flat as if dragged along a heavy piece of fabric: "If you don't sign, we'll initiate the final agreement."

Strip our Ark world from the Web, hide within the final barrier left by the Ancients, and isolate ourselves from the entire galaxy. And then? We will slowly perish there. You call that dignity? In that eternal stillness, we will no longer be Eldar, but merely specimens sealed in amber by our own fears.

"To live is to have dignity." The representative of Biye-Tan did not back down, the burning projection gleaming with an even more dazzling blue-white light at the edges. "And signing this agreement is to hand our lives over to humanity. Once we give them the full picture of the Web, they will treat us as the next Gamor. The Web's passageways are our last remaining weight. Once we hand them over, we will have nothing left at the negotiating table."

Sam-Han's representative slid forward from the shadows, his voice low but powerful enough to drown out the lingering echoes of the argument, like a gust of wind cutting through stagnant air: "They don't actually need our guidance anymore. We once thought the ultimate fate of the Internet was only collapse."

Now humanity—that Emperor—is repairing the Web, doing what we cannot. Wake up. The Web is slowing its decay; it is recovering. It is no longer truly ours. Their exploration will not cease if we do not cooperate. The time they are blocked will be hundreds or thousands of years. It's meaningless. By then, we will merely be in their way. And every corridor we surrender at the negotiating table can be exchanged for a condition. The Web is our lifeblood; they have repaired it, and we have become its appendage. As long as we remain in this universe, we still have a chance. Instead of initiating some final agreement and trapping ourselves—gaining security is tantamount to gaining annihilation.”

A moment of silence fell over the dome. That silence wasn't a compromise, but a confirmation that the argument had reached its end and someone needed to say the final words.

The representative of Biye-Tan took a half step back, the projected light shifting from a burning intensity to a steady, cold glow, his voice a notch lower than before: "They demanded we lead the way. The route we guided ended at the area they claimed to be repairing. We don't need to trust them, we only need to confirm that our interests overlap—they want to replace that bloodthirsty subspace with this network, and we, too, need this corridor to sustain our existence. At least on this point, our directions are aligned."

There was no applause, no votes. The light of the psionic projection gradually dimmed and faded. The Prophet's Dome fell silent once more. In this silence, most of the Ark worlds remained hesitant, a hesitation that had begun ever since the delegation's return. The daily arguments continued; today was merely a continuation of yesterday, nothing more.

In the direction of Karata, the offensive of the Chaos Gods continues. The Orks' revelry remains joyous. It's a slaughterhouse, a bleeding point for the Empire. All of the Empire's star systems seem to have ushered in unprecedented peace; the contraction of the battle lines has actually given those areas once ravaged by war a chance to breathe. The activation of the Webway is changing the order of the galaxy in a way that no one can precisely calculate. Every repaired tunnel is weakening the Warp's monopoly on Imperial shipping lanes.