This is our Warhammer journey

Chapter 320 has ended.

When Charagh, the leader of the Midgard 'Eliminator' war gang of Iron Warriors, arrived at the Steelblood with a summary of the day's deployment, a group of war blacksmiths were waiting outside the bridge gate.

He held the report in his hand, his gaze sweeping over the bodies of his brothers as he quickly scanned the current situation.

The war blacksmith, who had a fairly good relationship with him, silently shook his head at him.

Chalag immediately understood what was going on.

The Iron Lord is throwing a tantrum again.

The 'Eliminating Lord,' known for his iron-fisted discipline, was unusually timid. He stood before the iron gate, unsure whether to go in or not.

An aura powerful enough to instill fear even in battle-hardened Astartes emanated from behind the simple iron gate—a terrifying, oppressive feeling mixed with the stench of burnt engine oil and the corrosive effects of subspace.

The guild leader gripped the report nervously, wondering whether he should activate the access control.

The date was written at the top: December 12th, followed by nearly ninety pages of logistical data.

Every day he spends less than a minute approving these documents and reporting them. Unless the Iron Lord makes a specific request, this report is summarized by the newly formed Council of Twelve, usually based on statistical analysis algorithms.

Only when the iron door suddenly cracked open as if it were alive, swallowing the data panel in Charag's hand, did the Iron Warrior Grand Steward take two steps back as if granted a pardon.

A burst of decompression steam shot out from the seams of the armor, and he practically fled the oppressive corridor.

In the silent bridge, where only the dripping coolant from the condenser pipes and the low hum of the servo system provided background noise, Fricks saw the report pass by his line of sight, which had never moved.

He looked at the names.

[Company][Regiment][Division][Officer Rank][Support Battalion Number][Auxiliary Army Structure].
Each unit chosen by the Iron Lord is displayed like a dissected specimen. Their selection has nothing to do with honor or emotion, but solely with optimal coordinates, satisfactory combat effectiveness curves, and the shortest logistical supply routes.

They were chosen because of the cold, hard logic of machines.

Just like them standing before the Iron Lord at this moment.

Fricks clenched his jaw slightly, knowing that there would come a time when he would have to endure this pain.

He wasn't nervous because, based on years of experience, if Peturabo didn't kill you immediately, he simply wanted to talk. So, his life was undoubtedly protected before he could answer Peturabo's questions.

It's truly sad that someone can become familiar with something like this.

"."

After a long silence, Peturabo handed the report to Fricks and turned to face the oracle display screen.

An offensive was launched on it.

The expected offensive.

The Lord of Steel managed to launch a significant offensive while only being able to fully command a portion of the World Eaters and the vast majority of the Steel Warriors.

What about the others? What are they doing?
The Slaanesh Warband is playing their role-playing game, turning the entire planet into a stage for their madness.

The Khorne War gang was indulging in their time-wasting massacres, killing their own people in the process.

The Nurgle Warbands were losing interest due to the large-scale shortage of plague carriers, and taking it easy was already acceptable. However, some idle and crazy Tzeentch Warband member provoked the Death Side of Nurgle, the Purifier Plague Army, who are irreconcilable with the traditional Nurgle faction. Now, the three sides are engaged in a fierce battle.

The remaining warbands fought tooth and nail for even the smallest human sacrifices, attacking allies and even choosing to detach themselves from the main force to venture to planets fortified by the Empire.

Fricks flipped through the report and saw what the troops who had taken the ships produced by the Iron Warriors, the demon engines they produced, and the spoils of war were doing.

In the midst of chaos, everyone has their own things to do.

"That was an order."

Looking at the endless stream of scorching steam that could turn a person into minced meat in an instant, Perturabo spoke casually to the three people in front of him.

No one dared to breathe.

"That was my order!"

The Lord of Steel's voice suddenly rose, causing the entire keel of the warship to tremble.

"The attack was ordered by Forgrim!" "Who does he think he is, daring to defy my orders?"

The entire ship trembled with the Iron Lord's emotions, and his furious voice even penetrated the deck and steel, causing the group of war blacksmiths on the outside to tremble.

Everyone subconsciously glanced at the Fearless between them.

How reassuringly safe the iron, coffin-like metal machinery seemed at this moment.

I feel like I should get one for myself.

Inside the bridge, the psyker, suspended high above the ground, was mechanically dissected from the inside out. Steam rose from his blood, which transformed into images, ultimately revealing more clearly that Slaanesh's most beloved prince was holding an absurd triumphant ceremony on a planet shrouded in poisonous fog.

The people among them cried and chased after the shimmering golden figures, their feet worn raw and their bodies drained of moisture. Sharp thorns stripped them of their bodies, leaving only bones. They all raised their hands and wept as they ran toward the shimmering golden figures.

That is their sun, the glory of all mankind.

They wept, calling out the name of Fugrim.

They've lost all passion, gone mad, and are risking their lives!
"So they've really fallen to this level."

The Iron Lord's voice was icy and chilling.

"What do the Four Gods really want? Don't they crave my superior brothers? Instead, they've sent these useless playthings to fool me?"

"These maggots who reap the benefits without sowing are all good-for-nothings, worthless rotten fish and shrimp who only know how to eat."

The more Peturabo spoke, the more genuine his feelings became.

He couldn't help but recall the siege of Terra.

"For years, these scumbags have only known how to hold me back."

His power armor's hydraulic system emitted a whimpering sound like a wounded beast.

"Whether it's the Empire or Chaos, these things are constantly causing trouble, restricting me!"

"My orders were completely ignored; how could I possibly take charge under such circumstances?"

Peturabo had already turned away.

He stood there, panting heavily, staring into the murky darkness outside the observation gate.

He stared, as if he could see something in the darkness, something twisted, greedy, and visible only to him.

"It's all over."

He spoke into the darkness.

These words were accompanied by the roar of the main engines shutting down, and the entire warship suddenly fell into an eerie silence, with only the panting sounds emanating from Peturabo's chest, like the repetitive rhythm of a rusty piston.

"My lord, it's not over yet."

Kosolax's voice pierced the silence. He glanced at his two colleagues, who remained impassive beside him, and continued without hesitation:
"This is a war of honor."

"Because we foresaw it, because we longed for it, a war led by the Primarch, a war against the Primarch."

"If you choose to back down."

The oath-breaker placed his hand on the data panel in front of him.

"Then I will leave."

"Hehehe~"

Peturabo began to sneer.

He finally revealed an expression of positive emotion, meeting the gaze of the 'Oathbreaker,' and seeing a hint of anger in Kosorax's eyes.

(End of this chapter)