Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 625 A Trap

The war in the Medusa star system has reached a fever pitch, as if it has plunged into a bottomless abyss.

Although the Emperor's Sons fleet suffered a heavy blow in the orbital battle, its main force continued its relentless assault on the Iron Hand's painstakingly constructed defenses, like a persistent malignant tumor. The Fallen's landing craft and drop pods rained down like a blasphemous storm of steel, relentlessly pounding Medusa's iron-gray earth, drawing the flames of destruction from the void all the way to the planet's surface.

The eastern part of the Orbital Forging City, and the vast area surrounding the orbital elevator "Gorgon's Spine," had long since been transformed into a bloody battlefield. Every street and every furnace changed hands repeatedly in the fierce tug-of-war. Smoke and blood mist mingled, shrouding the rust-red sky. The deafening sounds of battle and explosions intertwined with the frenzied, distorted chanting of Chaos cultists, as if playing an endless symphony of destruction.

In the deepest command center of the Karada Fortress, Feralus Manus stood silently before a massive tactical holographic console, like a cold, steel monument. Her silver-gray eyes scanned the ever-updating battlefield data stream with superhuman speed; countless points of light representing enemy and friendly units collided, extinguished, and lit up again in her eyes. Her mind was like a highly sophisticated logic engine, precisely calculating the attrition rate on each front, the effectiveness of each counterattack, and the optimal allocation of every strategic resource.

Only the most astute observers could discern the turbulent undercurrents beneath her slightly taut metallic jawline and the occasional glint of icy sharpness in her eyes—beneath that mask of absolute rationality, a deep-seated hatred and heightened vigilance were spreading like smoldering embers.

The haunting whispers and distorted images of Fulgrim continued to attempt to penetrate the psionic barrier and erode her command node. Those sugar-coated poisons, hypocritical reminiscences of past "affection," and delusional fantasies of a depraved "perfection," all tore at her millennia-old wounds, igniting a boiling murderous intent. Each ripple from the aftershocks of this mental assault caused almost imperceptible ripples to spread across the liquid metal flowing between her fingers—traces of surging murderous intent forcibly suppressed and forged into a cold will.

"What he craved was never this planet, nor a vulgar victory."

Felus's voice suddenly shattered the silence of the command center, as cold as the eternal howling wind of Medusa, reaching the ears of the two people standing quietly beside him.

Governor Chen Xi's psionic radiance flickered in the shadows, like a lone star in the deep universe, serene yet concealing endless mysteries. Hathor—though clad in a secretary's uniform, his Primarch nature remained undisguised—examined the hologram with the sharp eyes of a hawk, his gaze revealing the prudence and strategic weighing of a Warmaster. Even now, a tension, almost instinctive, spanning millennia, permeated the space between them, like an unhealed wound, throbbing under pressure.

"I am Fugrim's target."

There was no doubt in Felus's words, only a resolute assertion, cold as steel.

"He's always been like this. A conquest filled with morbid 'artistic' elements, an ultimate feast of humiliation and corruption against his former brother—that's the ultimate drama he really wants to stage. Medusa and the billions of creatures on her are merely props he uses to build the stage and forced audience members."

There was no anger in her tone, only an almost absolute, deep-seated disgust, as if she were stating an unquestionable physical law.

Chen Xi nodded slightly, the silver psychic light in his eyes swirling like a river of stars, seemingly reflecting countless fragments of the future. "Your judgment is highly consistent with my psychic foresight. Fugen's fleet offensive appears chaotic, but in reality, the pressure is always focused on the area where you might directly clash. He is probing, but more importantly, he is enticing. His desire is like a dark lighthouse in the waves of warp, clearly discernible—he craves you, craves your reaction, craves to drag you into the heart of his meticulously woven drama of depravity."

Hathor stepped forward, her demeanor a blend of elegance and efficiency, a subtle contrast to Feralas's steely resolve. Their eyes met briefly, a tense spark seemingly igniting in the air, but it was quickly suppressed by their shared goal and the impending crisis.

"In that case, perhaps we can turn the tables on them."

Hathor's voice was calm and pragmatic, revealing the profound tactical knowledge of a warlord. This familiarity caused Felus's metal fingers to unconsciously tighten, then he forced himself to slowly loosen them.

"If he is so obsessed with you, we will give him a seemingly attainable opportunity. Let him believe that your will is being worn down by the continuous bloodshed, and that your defenses are showing cracks due to the depletion of resources."

A bold, meticulous, and extremely dangerous plan was quickly formulated during the three's efficient and secretive discussions. At its core, it was to precisely exploit Fugen's morbid obsession with Ferrus to lay an ultimate trap.

Every discussion meticulously stripped away unnecessary emotions, leaving only ruthless strategic deduction and necessary risk assessment, like forging a poisoned dagger, striving for a single, fatal blow.

The key to the trap lies in the urgent development of an advanced spacetime stasis field generator, spearheaded by Sages Balth Kaul and Allegana. This device boldly draws upon fragments of space necromancy technology obtained from the core of the "Watchers" and the ruins of the "Throat of the Pioneers," which have not yet been fully analyzed. Its design goal is not destruction, but capture—to imprison Fugan in a time-stagnant alternate dimension the moment he appears at the heart of the battlefield.

The strategy of luring the enemy deep into their territory is built upon a carefully crafted display of weakness at the strategic level. By systematically and gradually abandoning parts of the outer defenses, and even meticulously fabricating the illusion of unstable energy sources and intermittent command and communication disruptions at key nodes, the battle is induced to tilt in a direction seemingly favorable to the Emperor's son. All of this is to force Feralas to visit key areas on the front lines more frequently—she will use herself as irresistible bait to ignite Fuggen's greed and impatience, luring him away from the fleet's protection and personally descending to the surface of Medusa, ultimately stepping onto the death stage tailor-made for him.

The entire operation is a meticulously crafted manipulation of perception, vanity, and desire. Feralus herself will be the key swordsman wielding the trap, confronting Fulgrim directly. Only she can capture and dominate Fulgrim's attention to the fullest extent, and withstand the frenzied onslaught of a Primarch blessed by an evil god during the critical window before the Stasis Field fully activates. This requires not only unparalleled martial prowess but also a truly iron will capable of withstanding millennia of accumulated resentment and corrupting whispers.

The moment the static force field successfully binds the target, the hidden ambush will launch a thunderous attack. Hathor, and the other trump card hinted at by Chen Xi, will seize that fleeting opportunity to end this nightmare that has lasted for millennia with absolute power.

The success of the entire operation depended on millisecond-precise timing and flawless coordination across multiple units.

(End of this chapter)