Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 111 The Eve of the Storm 940-941.M41

The Black Pearl launched from Mandeville Point and arrived in the Lucis system on schedule.

The voyage was a standard five-week journey, not a day off. When Sierra reported the coordinates in the navigation cabin, her voice was as steady as reading a supply list. The readings at the Geller position remained stable throughout, the subspace engine output curves were as smooth as a mirror, and the ship barely pitched. The newly boarded crew were already used to this smoothness, and the veterans didn't even bother to lift their eyelids. The Black Pearl had always been like this, as steady as a fossil suspended in amber.

But on the communication panel in the bridge, Hera Voss's channel indicator light flashed frequently in the final week.

"Captain." Hera's voice was hoarse, with the hollow quality characteristic of a Star Speaker, but every word was clear. "Warspace communication continues to deteriorate. The psionic background noise from the direction of the Solar System has increased several times over in the past few days. It's not a natural phenomenon—it's a large-scale disturbance coming from deep within the warp. Countless greenskin fleets are moving, and their WAAAGH! force fields are stirring up enormous waves in the Sea of ​​Chaos."

Her fingers were fine-tuning the frequency on the adjustment knob of the receiver array.

"I could glean a few recurring words from those fragmented pulses—'orcs,' 'login,' 'Amigidon'—but the message was broken into hundreds of pieces, the logical connections between them broken, the timestamps jumbled. It wasn't ordinary noise."

Cohen stood at the porthole on the bridge, watching the guide lights of the Lucis Spaceport form a bright arc in the darkness. The outline of the dock gradually filled his vision, the berths filled with ships—Imperial Navy patrol vessels,

The number of battleships in the Lucis field fleet and the transport ships of the merchant guild has nearly doubled compared to a few months ago. The signs of mobilization are everywhere.

The Black Pearl slid into its designated berth. The gangway descended, the airlock opened, and the air of Lucis rushed in, dry and brimming with the distinctive rusty smell and industrial fumes of the foundry world.

Vitellius was already standing at the gangway.

He wore the deep red robes of a fifth-tier sage, trimmed with golden gear patterns, and the gear and skull emblem on the collar inlaid with five golden lines. His right mechanical arm extended from the sleeve, its adamantine knuckles gleaming darkly under the light, while his left arm remained flesh and blood, with the interface scars of the implant faintly visible at the cuff. A standard mechanical prosthetic eye was embedded in his right eye socket, its blue aperture slowly expanding and contracting to adjust focus—he glanced towards the gangway entrance, confirming it was Cohen, and the aperture stabilized. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, an old habit he couldn't break.

Behind him stood four Guardians—all in crimson power armor, with optical lenses replacing their eyes, explosive rifles hanging on their chests, their fingers resting motionless on the outside of the trigger guard.

Cohen stepped out of the airlock. Vitellius offered no pleasantries, no handshake, not even removing the cigarette from his lips. He merely tilted his head slightly, the blue halo of his right mechanical eye shrinking, gesturing for Cohen to follow him.

"The reception room. Let's go inside and talk."

The Christian guards stood at the entrance to the covered bridge and did not follow them in.

In the Black Pearl's reception room, the cauldron at the foot of the Emperor's statue had just been lit, and the smoke from frankincense slowly rose beneath the dome. Marcus followed in and stood in the doorway. Cohen sat down at the head of the long table, while Vitellius didn't sit. He pulled a data tablet from his robes, tossed it onto the table, and braced his hands on the edge, the blue halo of his right mechanical eye shrinking to its smallest size.

"Two messages. Which one should we listen to first?"

"Amigidon," Cohen said.

Vitellius pushed the data panel towards him. "Astral aid sent by Commissar Sebastian Arrek from Amigiddon. Just two days ago."

Cohen picked up the data panel; the screen displayed the decoded text. He didn't examine it closely; Hera had already pieced together the general content during the voyage.

"More than five Greenskin clans have been identified as having breached Armageddon from the warp." Vitellius's voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be driven into terracotta. "The Bonebreaker tribe, the Goff clan, and at least three other clans' combined fleets. Warp storms immediately surrounded the Armageddon system after the Orcs landed. Imperial Navy reinforcements cannot enter. Shipping routes have been cut off."

"Commissar Arrek sent out a Star-language communication," Cohen said.

"Commissar Arek has sent out an astral communication," Vitellius repeated, his tone carrying the complex emotions of an old sailor spotting a lighthouse in a storm. "An undistorted signal. His astral speakers don't know how they did it, but the message got through. Countless worlds have responded—not waiting for orders, but actively responding. The Navy, the Astral Force, the Astartes Chapter—everything that can move is rushing there."

He paused for a moment.

"But whether we can get in is another matter."

Cohen put down the data panel. "Second point."

Vitellius took another data tablet from inside his robe and placed it on the table. This tablet was thicker, with its edges sealed with adamantite corner protectors, clearly indicating a higher level of technology.

"Mars has sent a new Star Language message, which arrived last week." Vitellius's voice lowered by an octave. "You should already know that Mars has agreed to and welcomes the return of the Great Sage Enp Shakra and the Remnant of the Forged World of Punoris."

"But," Vitellius said, raising a finger.

The air in the reception room seemed to have been sucked away. Marcus's right mechanical eye shrank to its limit.

"Given the current situation in Armageddon, it is not appropriate to conduct a purity test in the conventional physical sense."

The Martians believed the Titan Legion should prove themselves through war. This was their usual method for handling similar situations—proving loyalty on the battlefield was far more convincing than any purification ritual. If the Titan Legion could prove themselves on the battlefield of Amegadoton, that would be indisputable proof. Even the Inquisition could not refute it.

He paused for a moment and looked at Cohen.

"You know what this means. It's not about going through the motions, not about showing off a Titan on the battlefield and coming back. It's about real fighting, about bloodshed, about standing firm against the greenskin tide. If you win, everything is clean. If you lose—" He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.

Cohen leaned back in his chair. "Those Martians don't need explanations, they only need results. War is their purification ritual. Every day your Titan Legion survives on the battlefield is more convincing than ten years of testing in the Martian sanctuary."

Cohen picked up his water glass and took a sip. "Just as I expected."

Vitellius looked at him, the blue halo around his right mechanical eye slowly expanding and contracting. "You knew this would happen?"

"Didn't you also think there would be a war?" Cohen put down his water glass. "The war at Amegiddon will change everything. The return of the Great Sage Enp, Garros's status, and Lucius's political role all depend on this battle. If we win, nothing needs to be explained."

A moment of silence fell over the drawing room. Vitellius looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

Cohen put down the glass and ran his finger around the rim of it.

"Lucis has already requested that Garros prepare for war," Cohen said. "The Garros fleet will accompany the Titan Legion to Amegadoton."

The drawing room fell silent again. Vitellius's prosthetic arm tapped twice on the edge of the table, then stopped.

"Your fleet is going to Amegadoton?" His tone wasn't sarcastic, but a statement. "It's a force in Garros, but in the Amegadoton theater, it wouldn't even be enough to fill a gap."

"We have to go, even if it's not enough," Cohen said. "The Titan Legion needs to prove itself; the legacy of Punolis isn't so easy to take. So Garros will provide the equipment, and Lucis will provide the manpower. The Titan Legion and the Knight Mechs will be stationed in Garros, but maintenance will be handled by Lucis. The pilots and technical priests will also be provided by Lucis. Garros will arrange various auxiliary technicians for maintenance and pilot apprentices to follow up. We'll operate according to the agreement."

Vitellius turned around and looked at him.

"The arrangements for the Titan Legion and the Knight Mechs are already underway," Vitellius said. "Lucis has no shortage of manpower—pilots and maintenance teams can be drawn from the reserve, so there are plenty of options. But with the current situation in Amegiddon, Lucis cannot afford to move its own Astral Legion lightly; that's their trump card. So the personnel drawn won't be elite; just enough to get by."

He paused for a moment.

"The same goes for Knight Mechs. Thousands upon thousands of Knight families in Lucis have trained their entire lives, but only a tiny fraction actually qualify to pilot them. Now, Garros has ready-made Knight Mechs, and those candidates who haven't had their turn are scrambling to get them. It's practically free—"

"Watch your words, it's not 'send'," Cohen interrupted him. "Gallos provides the equipment, and Lucis provides the pilots and maintenance. They're stationed in Gallos, but Lucis has the right to conscript. That's called cooperation."

Vitellius's lips twitched slightly, not in a smile, but with the kind of knowing look that comes from someone who has spent most of their life immersed in the bureaucratic system of the Mechanicus. "Alright. Let's cooperate." He picked up the data tablet and put it into the inner pocket of his robe. "Regarding the Titans and the Knights, Lucius needs Garros's things, and Garros needs Lucius's allegiance, to become truly one of their own."

He walked to the door, paused, and didn't turn around.

"Cohen. Your fleet has reached Armageddon. Don't rush forward. Getting back alive is more important than anything else."

Cohen watched his retreating figure. "When did you become so fussy?"

Vitellius didn't turn around; his voice came from the doorway, carrying a hint of helplessness typical of old friends. "From the moment you started gambling with your life."

He pushed open the door and went out. The heavy boots of the Guardians of the Church tapped out a steady rhythm in the corridor, fading into the distance.

Marcus stood in the doorway without saying a word.

Cohen sat at the long table, watching the sacred flame flickering at the feet of the imperial statue.

Four days later, the expanded council of the Temple Sages will be held in the main council hall of the Lucis Forging World. Outer-level Sages are not always qualified to speak, or even enter the main council hall. But this time, Garros has too much to put on that table.

Amegidon is burning. The fate of the Great Sage Enp hangs on a war yet to begin. Garros' fleet is heading to the front lines; the Titan Legion and the Knight Mechs are Garros's bargaining chips, and also his shackles. And Vitellius, his old friend, will be the one to speak for him in the Temple Council.

Cohen stood up and walked out of the drawing room. The hallway was bathed in cold, white light, and Marcus followed behind him.

"Come with me to the meeting in four days."

Marcus didn't ask why. "Yes."

Cohen walked around the corner and into the private workshop, the hatch closing behind him. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Outside the Black Pearl's porthole, the lights of the Lucis Forging World spread out in the darkness, and the restraint rings of the artificial sun shimmered with a dark red light on their tracks.