Warhammer: Empire Reboot

Inside the dimly lit tent.

Er Gou stomped Viktor firmly onto the hard frozen ground.

"First, spit out the underlying key to your system that controls civilian collars."

Before he finished speaking, Er Gou mercilessly extended a thick, armored finger and savagely plunged it into Viktor's left eye socket, where a high-precision bionic optical sensor that was flashing red light was originally embedded.

Viktor's cyborg body convulsed violently as if electrocuted.

As the main physical interface for the Tech Priests to connect to the external Thinker network, this prosthetic eye was designed with multiple layers of armor protocols from the very beginning of the Martian Temple, including dustproof, shockproof, strong electromagnetic interference-proof, and even subspace psionic contamination-proof.

The only thing I never considered was that one day a finger as thick as a steel bar would be used to forcefully shove it in from the outside in such a violent physical way.

Of course, Er Gou's fingers were not simply used to vent his anger and make random jabs.

On the fingertips covered in heavy adamantite, mysterious living metal was rapidly surging and reshaping, instantly transforming into an extremely sharp nanoscale data hacking probe.

When the liquid metal touched the physical interface at the edge of Viktor's eye socket, it blended together perfectly, mimicking the most orthodox access specification of the Mechanics Cult.

It's important to understand that the Mechanicus's neural firewall is built upon eight thousand years of heretical technological accumulation, and its underlying protocols and code standards are fundamentally different from the Empire's standard practices.

If conventional methods are used to directly and violently access the system from the outside, it will inevitably trigger the extinction and obsolescence alarm of the Agrippina Global Thinkers Array instantly.

Once activated, this anti-intrusion system, originating from the Dark Ages, will cause the entire planet's network hub to sever all external links within a millisecond.

But isn't Viktor himself a perfectly compliant and legitimate node in the main array?

Deep within the priest's computing core lay over 116,700 legitimate authentication tokens with high-density layers.

This was a "passport" he had painstakingly accumulated over decades within the rigid bureaucratic system of the Mechanics Church.

Today, the vast swarm mentality, guided by physical probes, has swept in and usurped the nest.

It arbitrarily invoked Viktor's exclusive authentication token, seamlessly packaging hundreds of millions of unauthorized search commands as Viktor's own daily office query requests, and then brazenly launched a data deluge onto the core array.

Under the rigid scrutiny of the Agrippina master logic array, this sudden surge of queries showed no statistical difference from the millions of similar requests that Vikley had issued over the past half-century.

Same syntax, same sending frequency, same access control mode.

This is not a crude brute-force attack at all.

This is a digital personality perfectly played by tens of millions of super brains after being rapidly de-frequencyd.

The impeccably arrayed Array of the Master Thinkers remained completely unaware, and did not sound any alarms.

In the next few dozen seconds, using this excellent physical springboard, swarm thinking has silently and thoroughly penetrated the depths of the thinker's network.

In the monitoring backend of General Kur, the logs would only show a bland appearance.

During those few dozen seconds of detention, the dutiful Father Vickley was frantically reviewing and coordinating a massive amount of data on refugees in the war zone with astonishing focus. His behavior was perfectly in line with his previous task of "civilian resource allocation".

Outside the tent.

Kyle and Tecon stood as still as iron towers, witnessing the entire exhilarating process.

Once upon a time, that vicious oil guy, Viktor, repeatedly ignored the tactical command chain of the Crying Wraiths, forcibly driving unarmed civilians to the front lines to clear mines as cannon fodder.

Kyle protested angrily, and Tecon also argued his case.

Vickery's response was always the same nauseating bureaucratic jargon: "Resource allocation authority belongs solely to the Forging World Authority," "Astartes has no right to interfere with the logistics allocation process," and "According to Article X of the Resource Act."

In an attempt to forcibly protect the mortals who had become cannon fodder amidst the overwhelming barrage of fire, the Lamenters Chapter has needlessly lost fourteen precious Space Marine brothers in this damned meat grinder.

Lawson turned around and slammed his broad hand heavily onto Kyle's cracked shoulder armor.

"Now, hand over to me all the information you have on the deployment of all the defenses in Agrippina, without reservation."

Kyle nodded emphatically: "Yes, Your Excellency!"

Lawson's gaze then turned to Tecon: "As for you, immediately gather all the surviving brothers of the Lamenters Chapter."

"Remember, not one of them is to be missing. Bring them all to me."

Upon hearing this, Tai Kong was taken aback, seemingly having a vague idea of ​​what this important figure was about to do.

Inside the heavy power armor, Tekong involuntarily straightened his back like a sword.

"As you wish!"

He pounded his chest to accept the order, and immediately activated the highest-encryption channel within the battle group, calling out to all the still-breathing children of the Weeping Ones.

Chapter 157 The Emperor's Light, Cardian's Tears

Whether it was the lightly wounded soldier leaning on his broken sword, the battle-hardened veteran who survived severe injuries buried under the rubble, or the two accompanying technical priests...

All the children of sorrow are gathering at full speed toward the place where hope rises.

The assembly was completed in just seventeen minutes.

The remaining two hundred or so members of the Lamenters' Chapter had all gathered in the scorched earth clearing outside the command tent.

Among them, 104 people with all four limbs intact and still able to stand were arranged in two neat rows.

Fifty-two severely injured monks, supported by their comrades, stood barely upright in the third row.

The remaining fifty-five seriously wounded soldiers were carefully placed on stretchers at the end of the formation.

Two wounded military technical priests stood like silent iron towers on the flanks.

The "Weeping Blood Drop" emblem, engraved on the breastplate of everyone's power armor and symbolizing the glory of the chapter, had long been buried deep in grime over the years.

Their faceplates were mostly in the open position.

More than two hundred faces, all bearing the perfect features of the Holy Blood Angel genes.

Their faces were resolute, with high brow bones and straight noses. Yet, every face bore the deep furrows of a life worn down.

His eyes were sunken, his lips were taut, and the extreme weariness between his brows, spurred by four years of working in the meat grinder, was something that no amount of divine genetic enhancement could conceal.

The Lamenters were ground to a pulp for four years and seven months in this crucible of despair known as "Agrippina".

The once-proud battle group, which boasted 847 Astartes monks, has now been reduced to only 211 broken bodies, like candles flickering in the wind, emerging from the mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

Lawson walked slowly to them.

“My name is Cole Lawson.”

"By His Excellency Dante, the Dark Regent, personally bestowed upon him the Seal of the Dark Side of the Empire."

Of the 104 Astartes standing there, some had already learned of the name from the two company commanders, while others had heard about it through the armor's internal communication frequency.

But no matter how many times you've heard it, the feeling of a tremor in your soul when this ancient title comes out of the mouth of the man before you is still unparalleled.

The Dark Side Master.

For a full ten thousand years, no living person dared to bear this weight.

Lawson did not dwell on this title, which was enough to shake the stars.

"The Lamenters' Chapter".

He stared at the group of wounded giants.

"Son of Sebastian Yashag Cruz, heir to the ninth order of the Blood Angels. After the shadow of the Badab War, he resolutely embarked on an endless crusade for redemption. In this desperate situation where the entire sector was occupied, the Star Language was cut off, and supplies were zero, he held the Agrippina Line for four years and seven months."

"636 dead."

"The casualty rate was as high as 75 percent."

The 211 mourners present held their breath in unison at the sight of these understated words.

Those are not just numbers, but also the flesh and blood brothers who shared their lives.

Every name once called, every face that fought side by side, every fierce battle fought to the death, is etched into the Astartes's eternally vivid hyper-memory.

"I know how people outside the community refer to you."

"Children of the Curse. The Doom Chapter. Scapegoats plagued by bad luck. A group of troublemakers that even their own Primarch offspring would rather avoid than stand alongside."

In the second row of the formation, an Astartes man's clenched jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.

“I know that after the Badab Rebellion, the Ultramarines handed you a cold-blooded sentence of atonement, simply because you chose the wrong side and disobeyed the higher-ups’ order to abandon the orphanage in order to cover the evacuation of eight hundred ordinary children.”

“I also know that in Agrippina, in order to cover the escape of civilians from the military factories that had been forcibly seized by the Mechanicus, you lost seven brothers overnight.”

“I know better than anyone that when you first arrived here, the highest military order you received was to ‘hold out for six months with a company’, but you fought for four whole years.”

"During these four hellish years, not a single high-ranking official of the Empire, not a single sector governor, and not even a single progenitor chapter commander issued you a single word of formal commendation!"

At the very front of the formation, Kyle Varus, the company commander of the 3rd Assault Company, swallowed hard.

The wilderness was deathly silent.

These are a group of lonely ghosts ruthlessly erased by the imperial orthodox narrative.

Lawson slowly raised his right hand.

"Today, I represent His Excellency Dante, the Regent of the Dark Side, the supreme authority of the Dark Side of the Empire, and the final stance of the Holy Empire towards all Astartes Chapters who would rather die than retreat!"

"The highest respect to the Wailers' Warband."

He pounded his right hand heavily on his left chest, right at his heart.

The moment this ancient gesture was revived, a veteran on the far right of the first row was the first to kneel down on one knee.

Immediately afterwards, his brother next to him knelt down with a thud.

Two hundred and nine Astartes soldiers who were still able to move performed the sacred military salute of kneeling on one knee in perfect unison.

Behind them, the fifty-five seriously wounded men on stretchers trembled as they raised their arms and pressed the outline of a salute to their chests.

Company Commanders Kyle and Tecon knelt in the first row.

Kyle lowered his head deeply.

Astartes does not shed tears.

Lawson did not make them remain kneeling for too long.

"Get up, all of you."

Two hundred and nine steel giants stood up with a roar.

Lawson stared at them and continued:

"Your genetic father, the great Saint Gilles, left behind a 'stubborn disease' deep in the blood of his descendants: Black Fury and Red Thirst."