Warhammer: Empire Reboot

They pre-determined the optimal bombing trajectory that the Endercraft would soon enter.

Typhons's gaze extended outwards.

In low Earth orbit, eleven warships painted with the Imperial double-headed eagle are cruising at high speed.

The Gothic-class heavy cruiser "Avenger" is positioned in the center of the formation.

Two cruisers were positioned on either side.

The frigate flew close to the edge of the atmosphere, its orbit so low it almost grazed the ionosphere.

This is a blocking net.

As long as the Endship lowers its altitude to release the virus missiles, those low-orbit warships will immediately crash into them and forcibly intercept them at close range using light spears, macro cannons, and boarding torpedoes.

In the surface air-raid shelter, Typhon also saw several large solid warheads.

Adamantite boarding torpedo.

Its purpose is not to destroy warships.

They were designed to "nail" the boarding anchor points into the ship's hull.

Typhons remained silent for a few seconds.

His original plan for a safe, remote bombing operation was not feasible.

High-orbit bombing means that the plague bombs will be detonated in mid-air by ground-based railguns with microsecond-level synchronization accuracy before penetrating the atmosphere.

With a low-orbit, high-explosive attack, the cumbersome Endship would become a sitting duck for anti-aircraft torpedoes and the Imperial fleet.

Lawson transformed this planet into a meat grinder with no blind spots.

Just then, the radar screen flashed red again.

"Sir, the enemy's low-orbit fleet has begun to climb and change course."

"Gothic-class heavy cruiser's light lance array is warming up."

"They are actively approaching our fleet!"

Outside the porthole, in deep space, eleven of Lawson's main warships, trailing dazzling plasma contrails, broke free from low-orbit cover and rushed toward the Death Guard fleet.

Like a pack of wolves leaving their den.

Typhons narrowed his eyes.

"decisive."

He rarely praised his enemies.

"They're deliberately abandoning gravity cover to drag us into a close-quarters war of attrition."

As a battle-hardened commander, Typhons immediately made a judgment.

It cannot become entangled in near-Earth orbit.

The End is sturdy, and the Deathguard fleet is also known for its durability and ability to corrupt.

However, their mobility, artillery response speed, and formation synchronization were all inferior to Lawson's Imperial fleet, which was uniformly commanded by swarm thinking.

Even more troublesome are the boarding torpedoes.

Once caught by those reckless torpedoes, the Deathguard, though unafraid of death, could have its ship's structure dismantled from the inside.

Moreover, Nurgle's oracle was very clear.

They captured Lawson alive.

If the planet's surface were shattered into glass during a fleet engagement, or if a macro cannon accidentally killed Lawson, Typhons would be unable to explain himself to his benevolent father.

Lawson must still be on this metallic planet.

To capture him alive, we must land on land.

The only way is to let the infantry step into this meat grinder and dig him out from the depths of the fortress.

Typhons raised his scythe and slammed it heavily on the ground.

"Sever orbital contact with the enemy fleet."

"All companies, abandon the orbital bombing plan."

"Prepare the drop pod, corrupt the Thunderhawk, and the teleportation array."

The adjutant hesitated for a moment.

"Sir, the air defense density below is extremely high. If we force a landing, the casualty ratio will be very poor."

Typhons turned and glanced at him.

The gaze was obscured by the shadow of the Terminator helmet, yet it caused the lieutenant's rotting spine to instinctively tighten.

"Pain is a gift from a loving father."

Typhons said coldly.

"Sacrifice makes the soil more fertile."

He turned and walked toward the teleportation platform leading to the drop deck.

Every step left a corrosive mark on the bridge floor. Black flies swarmed out from the gaps in the armor, forming a buzzing cloud above his head.

"After the fleet deploys its landing forces, it will immediately raise its orbit and retreat towards the edge of the star system."

"Use the subspace fog to hold back Lawson's interception fleet."

The adjutant bowed his head.

"What about you?"

Typhons stopped in front of the teleportation platform.

Yellowish-green pus dripped from the blade of his sickle, and a small patch of wriggling mold immediately grew on the ground.

"I'll go down myself."

"I'm going to cut off Lawson's limbs."

"Sew his mouth shut, leaving only his eyes open."

"Let him watch as his puppets are devoured one by one by the swarm of destroying bees."

Typhons looked up at the cold, metallic planet outside the porthole.

“Then, I will drag him to my loving father’s feet.”

"Let him learn what decay is."

On the red plain, the black rain gradually stopped.

The last few drops of black rain pounded on the shattered metal surface, flowing along the edge of the crater into the red-hot cracks with a faint hissing sound.

The rain carried a cold, hard, rusty smell, mixed with the remnants of blood and flesh charred by the high temperature, forming a layer of gray-black fog in the low air.

The traces left by Angron are being swallowed back by Agrippina little by little.

That battlefield, once crushed by the Primarch, now resembles a sheet of iron torn apart by the claws of a giant beast.

The earth's crustal faults were exposed, and deep red geothermal steam spewed from the cracks, distorting the view in the distance.

The cleaved remains of the Macado were half-buried in the mud, the turret was tilted, and molten metal dripped from the muzzle of the gun.

The legions under Lawson's command have begun to operate.

The T-series mechanical assassins stood on a makeshift mobile command platform, with eight servo mechanical arms deployed simultaneously.

One arm projects a holographic topographic map, another adjusts the servant's route, and the others continuously connect to surface repair machinery and heavy-duty towing platforms.

Tens of thousands of machine servants swarmed into the battlefield like worker ants.

They need no appeasement, no rest, and not even to avoid demonic contamination.

The Bloodsteel servant, its frontal lobe severed, dragged its tracked lower limbs, attached magnetic chains to large pieces of armor wreckage, and then a heavy tractor pulled it to the smelting area behind.

Other servants carried quick-setting steel canisters and poured the silvery-gray slurry into the fissures in the ground created by Angron's trampling.

The Xiongwei Brigade donned their centurion heavy armor once again.

They had previously torn apart the demonic entity with their bare hands, but now they stood silently in the mud.

The heavy ceramic steel deck snapped back onto the chest and abdomen, and the anti-gravity chassis emitted a deep hum.

They picked the power hammer out of the mud, and wiped the black rain off the axe handle with their large fingers.

The White Tiger and Crimson Dragon battle groups then dispersed outwards.

One thousand powered armored vehicles formed a three-tiered perimeter along the shattered defense line.

The outermost layer is used to inspect for any remaining chaotic mutants, the middle layer is used to monitor geothermal cracks and uncooled craters, and the inner layer is used to protect the T-series suicide squad and the repair engineering team.

The helmet's oracle emitted a fine scanning sound, and the muzzle of the explosive gun was lowered, yet it could be raised at any moment within a fraction of a second.

Lawson stood in the center of the battlefield.

Beneath your feet are the coordinates where Angron was finally swallowed by the black hole.

Nothing remains here.

There were no remnants of flesh and blood, nor any burn marks from the subspace.

The ground, compressed by five miniature black holes, has an unusually smooth, dark texture, like a black metal seal crushed by a 10,000-ton hydraulic press, embedded in the red plain.

Lawson closed his eyes.

His senses pierced through the thin atmosphere, touching the veil of reality above Agrippina that had undergone a qualitative change.

The curtains were stiff.

It's as hard as a layer of cosmic armor that has been repeatedly forged, folded, and quenched.

But on the other side, something is hitting it.

It was a colossal hand composed of billions of tons of boiling blood, skulls, rage, and the desire for war, pounding again and again on the reality barrier solidified by the black hole deep within the brass throne.

Each impact sent a violent red ripple through Lawson's psychic perception.

If that ripple were to fall into the soul of an ordinary Star Speaker, it would be enough to cause their blood vessels in the brain to burst on the spot, and their eyeballs to burn to ash from their sockets.