Warhammer 40K in a box

Chapter 628 Blessing Arrives
Felus let out a cold snort that was almost contemptuous, the sound echoing in the sealed chamber with a metallic tremor: "Then let him try. The grudges that could not be completely settled ten thousand years ago will surely come to an end here today."

The strategic "showing weakness" tactic was put into strict implementation.

Under Felus's personal instruction, several carefully selected outer defense nodes underwent a "tactical retreat".

The retreat was meticulously planned, leaving behind ample equipment wreckage, explosion marks, and signs of a "hasty" withdrawal. It even deliberately sabotaged some secondary communication relay stations, allowing the Emperor's Son's intelligence agents to "successfully" intercept and decipher some cleverly altered encrypted messages that indicated strained supply lines, depleted backup energy, a chaotic command chain, and internal disagreements among the defenders.

All these clues are like an invisible net that is gradually closing in, pointing precisely to the predetermined final ambush point—a specially modified industrial ruin complex in eastern Orbita.

Meanwhile, Ferrus appeared at the front lines more frequently and deliberately stayed longer.

She no longer swiftly and decisively ends battles before disappearing into the shadows. Sometimes she lingers a while longer on a newly recaptured position, checking on the wounded, and even personally helping a fallen soldier up with her cold, metallic hands for a brief chat.

These images were cleverly amplified and transmitted back through the Emperor's Son's all-pervasive physical reconnaissance and psychic surveillance.

She made herself the most dazzling focus on the battlefield, becoming the commander who seemed to be gradually isolated, worn down, and forced to constantly appear to put out fires due to heavy responsibilities and continuous pressure.

All this scheming and performance was to feed Fugen's ever-growing arrogance and greed.

He wanted more than just to defeat her; he wanted to completely manipulate, crush, and ultimately corrupt her in the very field she was most proud of, at the moment when she was doing her utmost to protect her people and the world.

What he wanted was that desperate sigh when her iron will crumbled, the sight of her finally succumbing to his distorted aesthetics, the ultimate manifestation of his dark artistic vision.

On the front lines, the rank-and-file soldiers are unaware of the vast and dangerous strategic picture held by the higher command.

They only saw their beloved Primarch with them, fighting more bravely than anyone else, and seemingly bearing unimaginable pressure.

New recruit Carl is no longer the boy who trembled with fear when he first went to the battlefield.

Several deep scars appeared on his face, and his eyes became as cold and sharp as those of an old soldier, yet they burned with an inner fire.

His squad has experienced several devastating losses and reorganizations. He is now a temporary sergeant, leading several other new recruits who, like him, have been rapidly matured in the flames of war.

After successfully repelling a wave of Noise Warriors' frenzied attacks, Karl leaned against the broken wall, panting heavily, and looked at the Primarch who was listening to the battle report not far away.

Ferrus's silver-grey power armor was covered with new scratches, dents, and charred marks from energy weapons. Her posture remained as upright as a mountain, but a deep weariness, seemingly emanating from the depths of her soul, was difficult to conceal through her steel-like exterior.

At that moment, Karl felt a strange palpitation and a stinging pain in his heart. It was not fear, but a heavy, intense impulse to share the immense pressure on his leader.

"The Primarch... she almost never left the front lines."

A young soldier next to Karl, whose arm was still trembling slightly from the fierce battle just now, spoke in a low voice, his voice filled with immense awe and deep concern.

“She’s carrying a burden we can’t even imagine.” Karl’s voice was hoarse as he wiped the blood-stained grime from his visor with his gloves. “And all we can do is hold this place until the very last moment. Trust her judgment, follow her orders, no matter the cost.”

They were unaware that they were also an indispensable part of this enormous bait. Their sacrifices and perseverance were calmly calculated within the grand and necessary strategy. This ignorance, to some extent, was also a protection of morale.

Meanwhile, on the Emperor's side, the seductive whispers gradually turned into confident laughter.

Fuggen believed that Feralus's will was being worn down by the ongoing bloodshed, her resources were running out, and every appearance of hers was a forced and desperate struggle.

He believed that the stage was set and the audience was ready; it was time for the grand finale, which had been anticipated for millennia, to begin.

His desires were like the ever-increasing flames of purgatory, desperately needing to be satisfied.

Finally, an exceptionally powerful, dense, and undisguised surge of psionic energy began to gather and rise from the depths of the Emperor's Son fleet, like a beacon of evil in the dark void, shooting straight toward the surface of Medusa, precisely focusing on the eastern part of the Orbital Forging City—the area where Feralus most frequently appeared.

The psionic energy fluctuations were filled with temptation, mockery, and an impatient possessiveness, like an invisible, enormous hand trying to seize its long-coveted prey completely.

"he came."

In the command center, Felus instantly sensed this familiar yet nauseating power. His silver-gray eyes flashed with a cold light, and all his calculations, all his repression, and all his waiting transformed into a pure and icy will to fight.

All the preparation, all the sacrifices, all the performances, were for this moment.

She turned abruptly and gave the communications officer her final routine order, her voice so calm it was almost imperceptible, as if she were simply stating a predetermined, inevitable fact: "As planned, the troops will gradually withdraw to the second line of defense. Without my direct order, no unit may enter the seventh to ninth districts in the east."

That was the final stage chosen for her, and for Fugen.

A prison meticulously prepared at a tremendous cost, an arena destined to have its final outcome written in blood and soul, steel and will.

She steadily picked up her warhammer, the "Forge Hammer," its cold metal surface reflecting her expressionless face, yet her gaze burned like flames.

The deepest trap has been set, and the most dangerous bait is about to be laid.

Gorgon will confront her eternal nightmare herself, not to settle old personal scores, but to protect a future—a future where she may no longer exist, but one where she must be completely rid of the shadow of corruption.

The air seemed to already echo with Fugen's ecstatic and twisted psychic pronouncements, like a magnificent overture before the final curtain rises in a play, filled with morbid anticipation and frenzied joy:

"I have come, my dear Felix... Let us finally bring this long symphony to a most 'perfect' finale."

(End of this chapter)