Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 114 The Expedition (Part 1)

The Black Pearl launched from Mandeville. The Garros star appeared as a yellow orb of light outside the porthole, not blinding, but bright enough.

Cohen stood at the bridge window. The outline of the spaceport magnified in his view, the guide lights in the berth area were neatly arranged, the service aircraft were lined up on the jet bridge, and the light spots of the optical lenses were arranged in two rows in the darkness.

Along the outer edge of the berth area, more than a dozen warships lay silently docked. The Black Pearl was in the center, flanked by three Luna-class cruisers—the Truth, the Dreadnought, and the Glory. Ten Cobra destroyers were interspersed among the Luna-class ships. Together with the Black Pearl, this formed the core of the Garros fleet's battle force.

Further away, the silhouettes of four Odysseus-class ships stretched out in the darkness. The cargo hatches of the Indomitable, Courageous, Hercules, and Extraordinary were open, and crates of supplies were being transferred from the spaceport's storage area onto the ships via transport ships.

These four Odysseus-class combat transport ships are the main transport vehicles for the Garros Defense Forces' expeditions, and also powerful firepower platforms when necessary. The vast majority of 600,000 soldiers, thousands of tanks and armored vehicles, hundreds of artillery pieces, and a full-scale air force are carried on them. From Lemanrus battle tanks to Chimera armored vehicles, from Cerberus to Hydra anti-aircraft guns, from Valkyrie transports to Thunderbolt fighters, everything is secured in their multi-tiered cargo holds. Each Odysseus-class ship can carry an entire Astronaut Legion and all its heavy equipment—separate soldier compartments and spacious vehicle decks are arranged in layers, with simultaneous loading and unloading through stern and side doors.

But those aren't the most eye-catching.

On the outer edge of the spaceport's orbit, an even larger silhouette was slowly adjusting its attitude. The 20-kilometer-long steel hull of the LA-0187 Expeditionary Ark moved slowly, guided by a beam of light. The Ark needed a name from Garros, and Cohen gave it a new name—the Spark. The Spark of Pronoris, the future of Garros.

Marcus walked up behind him, the blue halo of his right mechanical eye steadily expanding and contracting. "Captain, berths have been assigned. Berths along the outer edge of the Ark have been confirmed, and supply pipelines are being connected."

Cohen nodded. The Black Pearl slowed down and changed course.

The airlock seals snapped shut with a dull, hydraulic locking sound. The air entering the Garros spaceport was dry and harsh, icy cold without a trace of warmth, mixed with the metallic smell of residual ozone from the circulation system, instantly replacing the ship's constant circulating air.

Cohen stepped off the gangway. Kara followed closely behind, her CMC power armor joints humming softly, helmet tucked under her arm, her gaze sweeping over the near-chaotic loading operations in the berth area. On the platform, Planetary Defense Force Commander Cole stood waiting, his dark gray uniform crisp, two adjutants standing behind him.

"Governor." Cole stood at attention and nodded. "The first batch of 600,000 expeditionary troops has been assembled and loaded onto ships. The supply list has been confirmed by Ellis, and loading is 87 percent complete. Luce, the deputy commander of the Garros Defense Forces, has taken command of the garrison troops and assumed control of the dome and port area defenses."

Kara's gaze swept over the silent fleet array on the outer track of the berth, finally settling on the colossal, slowly moving shadow further away—the twenty-kilometer-long forging ark "Fireseed," its mottled armor resembling ancient scars under the starlight, its posture being meticulously adjusted by a guiding beam. The newly painted Garros gear and skull emblem, against the scarred background, exuded a stubborn vitality.

"Captain Edric of the Ark is in position," Cole continued, "The crew is a mix of fleet elites and defense force backbone. Two infantry regiments have completed the CMC-300A upgrade and reinforcement. Training rating: Excellent. Ready for combat at any time."

Cohen's gaze didn't linger on Cole, but rather pierced through the busy berths, as if sensing the pulse of the entire system. He nodded slightly.

The berth area was busier than ever. Service aircraft and six-legged transport platforms darted between the jet bridge and the cargo hold, carrying crates of ammunition and spare parts into the open cargo doors of the Odysseus-class ships. The clattering of the six-legged platforms' metal legs on the deck, the dull thud of containers docking, and the distant screeching of engines landing blended into a continuous industrial noise—a rhythmic, melodyless sound.

The cargo holds of the four Odysseus-class ships were already neatly arranged. Explosive magazines, plasma pistol magazines, and carrying cases for molten metal bombs were all sealed to military standards. Dozens of layers of sealed food cans, labeled with gears and skulls, were stacked, enough to sustain hundreds of thousands of men during the voyage and frontline combat. Medical kits, spare parts, and repair tools were categorized and stacked on dedicated shelves.

The loading of heavy ground equipment proceeded simultaneously. The grey-green hull of the Lemanrus battle tank slowly rose from beneath the crane platform, its tracks pressing into the mounting slots with a dull metallic clang. One after another, Chimera armored personnel carriers drove into the cargo hold, lining up neatly on the multi-tiered armored vehicle deck. Rows of Imperial steel, including Hydra anti-aircraft turrets, Hellhound heavy tanks, and engineering vehicles, were towed by servitors and stacked in the cargo hold of the Odysseus-class tanks.

The loading of the air force units was also proceeding simultaneously. Valkyrie transport planes and Vulture gunships took off from the Garros underground hangar and landed one after another on the hangar deck of the Fireseed, guided by the beam of light. The wings of the Thunder heavy fighters were folded and parked in dedicated berths on the sides of the hangar, while the Avenger attack aircraft stood by the catapult tracks deeper inside.

Deep within the hangar, the massive hull of the Devourer transport ship occupied the largest berth. Service servitors moved about inside the Devourer's open belly hatch, loading ammunition boxes and supplies into racks.

Tens of thousands of engineering machines operate day and night between the berth and storage areas. After several rounds of expansion, the number of berths at the spaceport has increased several times over.

Soldiers boarded the ship at dawn and continued throughout the day.

Long lines stretched from the four Odysseus-class sailors' compartment entrances, the ranks of men in dark gray combat uniforms extending from the gangways to the middle of the jet bridge. There were no flags, no military music, only the dense sound of boots clattering against metal grilles, and the occasional count-up from sergeants at the front of the ranks.

A young soldier paused at the boarding gate and looked back. Beyond the jet bridge lay the dome of Garros—the city, covered by transparent armor plates, reflected a cold, white light against the sky. He stared for two seconds, then, nudged on the shoulder by someone behind him, walked through the airlock without turning back.

The soldiers' quarters were located midway between the multiple decks of the Odysseus-class ships. The berths were three-tiered welded steel beds, with a thin mattress and a blanket on each bed frame. The aisles were so narrow that two people could barely pass each other sideways. The air was thick with the smells of disinfectant and industrial grease, mixed with the humid heat from hundreds of people breathing at the same time.

A sergeant stood at the entrance to the soldiers' quarters, holding a data board and crossing off a name for each person who entered. "Line up, don't push. The bunk numbers are printed on the side of the bunk frames. Find your spot, sit down, and don't block the aisle."

No one spoke. The soldiers found their bunks, stuffed their personal equipment into the metal cabinets under their beds, then sat on the edge of the beds, heads down checking the serial numbers on their weapons. Some were wiping the magazines of their explosive rifles, others were re-tying their backpack straps. It wasn't tension; they were filling the last moments before departure with repetitive actions.

On the lower vehicle deck, the driver of a Chimera armored vehicle leaned halfway out of the commander's hatch, holding a wrench and tightening the nuts on the antenna mount. Next to him, on the side of the turret of a Hellhound heavy tank, two loaders squatted in front of the ammunition rack, checking the fuses of the molten metal rounds one by one.

No one was chatting.

The Black Pearl brought back two groups of people. The first group consisted of nearly ten thousand technical priests and apprentice craftsmen from various workshops and temples in Lucis, who were drawn into the Titan Legion's maintenance and technical teams. The second group consisted of thirty-eight Titan pilots, nearly one hundred assistant pilots, and a supporting maintenance team of machine servants.

The atmosphere in the berth area changed the moment they stepped out of the gangway.

The man at the head of the procession wore a deep red robe, his right arm clad in a fine metal mechanical structure, and an optical lens embedded in his left eye socket. He had served in the maintenance ranks of the Lucis Astral Titan Legion for centuries, yet had never qualified as a chief engineer. It wasn't a lack of skill. It was that the Astral Legion's ranks were full. He had been on the waiting list for over four hundred years, and his number hadn't changed.

His steps faltered as he stepped onto the metal mesh of the covered bridge. It wasn't hesitation, but something suppressed for four hundred years, surging up from his chest, that he forcefully held back with his will.

Behind him, someone's optical lens zoomed wildly, someone's mechanical fingers unconsciously twirled data beads, and someone's lips moved, emitting low-frequency binary pulses—not complete prayers, but fragments, snippets of hymns dug out from the depths of memory, recited countless times in the Lucius underground chamber to the simulation equipment.

"This is—" A tech priest stopped by the observation window, his voice strained from the electronic speaker, dry and trembling—a trait unbecoming of a fourth-order priest. His gaze was fixed on the massive, dark purple, corroded gash stretching for kilometers across the ark's outer wall.

The fourth-tier technical priest leading the team didn't turn around, but his pace slowed slightly. "The legacy of Punos, the 'Fireseed.' Eternal decay, yet its spirit remains."

Behind him, there was a gasp and an even more rapid binary pulse.

Passing through the corridor bridge, the Ark's airlock slid open. The passageway behind the door was so high that the searchlights couldn't reach the top. A metallic skeleton protruded from the walls, with a dense network of conduits and data cables climbing like vines. The air was icy, filled with the scent of stale holy oil, ionized ozone, and some indescribable, oppressive aura seeping from within the ancient metal.

A craftsman's apprentice knelt down, pressing his palm against a deep, worn-down indentation on the passageway floor. "This is a mark left by the Great Expedition, this is a sacred relic," he said softly.

The priest leading the group stopped beside him, the light sweeping across the dents and illuminating the faintly visible, brand-new indicator lights and busy maintenance mechanics deep within the passage. "For the glory of Om Messiah," he paused, "this is the extension of its will."

After Lucius dispatched his team, another group descended the gangway.

They wore the dark gray combat uniforms of the Garros Defense Force, with only temporary identification tags on their chests. Their faces were younger—the youngest looked no more than twenty, and the oldest no more than forty. They had no prosthetic limbs, no optical lenses.

They were the technical backbone selected by Garros from among the immigrants—they had repaired machine tools in the Armageddon factory, handled equipment in the Lucius workshop, and worked as technicians in the Garros spaceport maintenance dock.

Leading the procession was a woman in her early thirties, with short hair, a slender face, and a calm gaze. She had grown up in the Helsard hive of Amegiddon, starting as a machine tool repairman at sixteen and arriving in Garros on an immigrant ship at twenty-eight. At the Garros spaceport maintenance dock, she started as a lowly cleaner, mastering the maintenance procedures for every type of shuttle. Later, she was selected by the civilian staff to join the Titan Apprenticeship Program. She was followed by nearly a thousand people.

They walked silently across the covered bridge, their eyes fixed on the twenty-kilometer-long steel behemoth. Some clenched their fists, their knuckles turning white. Others' lips moved, as if silently reciting something.

The female leader paused before the airlock of the ark. She looked up at the weathered bulkhead. A dark purple crystalline pattern ran along the bulkhead, from the edge of the door frame all the way to the ductwork above her head.

"What we need to learn," she whispered. "is piled higher than this ark."

No one answered her. She stepped inside.

The Warhound-class hangar was on the lowest level of the Ark. The sign on the hatch was rusted, with only the characters "Fourth Squadron" still legible. Dumas, the fourth-tier technical priest leading the squadron, stood at the doorway, not going in. Behind him, dozens of technical priests and apprentice craftsmen also stopped, their servo skulls hovering behind their shoulders.

"The light," Dumas said.

The cabin lighting activated after a two-second delay. Searchlights blazed down from the dome, their cold white beams slicing through the darkness. Twenty-four Warhound-class Titans knelt on their transport pedestals.

Dumas walked in. His footsteps echoed in the empty hangar. He didn't stop when he passed the first, nor the second or third. He stopped in front of the fourth. Not because he recognized this Titan, but because its Machine Soul Resonance indicator light was flashing. The other twenty-three were a stable dark red. This one was flashing dark red, then off, then dark red again, about once every three seconds.

Dumas crouched down. His mechanical prosthetic arm braced against the floor, the optical lens zoomed to its minimum, aligning with the machine's resonant cavity maintenance panel below the indicator light. The neural interface at the back of his head emitted a short, precise binary pulse for identity verification, with complete format and accurate frequency.

The pulse had no echo.

A technical priest behind him came over and squatted down beside him. "How is the resonant cavity interface?"

Dumas didn't answer. His prosthetic fingertips rested on the edge of the access panel for three seconds, then released. "Constraint field decay. Cavity seal insufficient. Perform the Machine Soul Soothing Ritual to reset the resonant frequency."

The technical priest stood up, turned to the people behind him, and said, "Fourth unit, resonant cavity calibration. Holy oil and incense. Go and fetch them."

Several people turned and walked toward the ceremonial spare parts cabinet at the hangar entrance. Dumas remained crouched in place, his right fingertips still on the edge of the inspection panel.

Another tech priest approached. "There's no response to the pulse. Is the machine's soul dormant, or is the interface malfunctioning?"

Dumas said, "It is."

"How do you determine this?"

"The indicator light is flashing at a frequency that isn't a fault code. The standard frequency for a fault code is once every 0.5 seconds. This one is flashing once every three seconds. It's breathing."

The technical priest did not ask any further questions.

Dumas's fingertips pressed against the edge of the access panel, motionless. One minute, two minutes. The technical priests behind him had completed the soul-pacifying ritual—holy oil was smeared on the resonant cavity shell, incense burners were lit at the Titan's feet, and low-frequency pulses of binary hymns were simultaneously output from the speakers of the three servo skulls. Some held data cables, waiting to be plugged into the resonant cavity interface; others held holy oil applicators. No one urged him. They had all squatted over the access panel, they had all waited. But they waited for the machine's response; Dumas waited for the soul's reply.

Then the status light on the inspection panel jumped from dark red to dark green. It wasn't a stable green; it was a weak green flashing at the edge of the constraint field. But it lit up.

Dumas stood up. His prosthetic limbs hung at his sides, his adamantite knuckles stained with remnants of sacred oil from ten thousand years ago—carbonized and powdery—that had seeped from the seal of the resonant cavity. He glanced at the stains on his knuckles.

"Begin calibration," he said.

Data cables were inserted into the resonant cavity interface, holy oil was reapplied to the sealing surface, and incense burners were lit in the four corners of the hangar, sending up plumes of smoke. Some climbed the scaffolding, others squatted at the plasma conduit interface checking the aging of the confinement field, and still others opened the control panel of the weapon calibration platform. Dumas was not involved in any specific work. He stood in front of the Warhound-class, looking up at its optical sensor array—those lenses in the head, long since faded. His posterior brain interface continuously output low-frequency pulses. The Titan's machine spirit neither responded nor refused.

The Titan Apprentice of Garros stood outside the safety line at the edge of the hangar. The row of yellow warning lights embedded in the terracotta plates flashed at a fixed frequency, like an insurmountable barrier.

Ira Varin stood behind the warning lights, data pad tucked under her arm, hands in her combat uniform pockets. She was watching Dumas. The man's prosthetic fingertips were pressed against the edge of the access panel, motionless, for almost two minutes. She noticed his breathing rate wasn't changing, but the mechanical knuckles of his left hand were slightly curled—not a malfunction, but because he was using his other hand to suppress something.

"What's he doing?" someone whispered from behind. It was Ivan, bald, with an old scar above his left ear, one of the batch of people selected from the spaceport's maintenance dock.

"Wait." Ella didn't turn around.

"What are you waiting for?"

"The machine spirit replies."

Ivan was silent for a few seconds. "Will he reply?"

"have no idea."

The indicator light changed from dark red to dark green. Ella noted the time on the data panel—seventeen seconds of waiting. Not from when she started timing, but from when Dumas's pulse was emitted to when the indicator light changed color. Seventeen seconds. Four hundred years of waiting condensed into seventeen seconds of silence, then a weak green light.

She began drawing on the data board. Not drawing Titan, but the fixed interface arrangement of the resonant cavity access panel—six sets of adamantite latches, asymmetrically positioned, the one in the upper right corner two millimeters deeper than the others. She labeled the latches with their serial numbers. She didn't know if these details would be useful later, but it was a habit she'd developed at the spaceport's maintenance dock: she had to memorize the engagement depth of each latch, the feel of resistance with every rotation. Those who couldn't remember would end up with extra parts when reassembling.

The main hangar is two levels above the Warhound-class. Six Marauder-class Titans occupy the central area. Maintenance platforms surround the area, and figures move about on multi-layered scaffolding. The hum of electrical currents from weapon calibration and the dull thuds of joint testing rise and fall. The air smells of high-pressure coolant and holy oil.

A tech priest stood on the scaffolding, holding a psionic focusing device, repeatedly focusing it on the magnetic field focusing ring of the Marauder-class right arm's molten cannon. Behind him, an apprentice held a data board, reading parameters and announcing numbers: "Eccentricity 0.03, still within tolerance."

The technical priest didn't look up. "0.03? The standard is 0.01. Adjust."

The apprentice began entering parameters on the control panel. The technical priest did not remove his hand from the focusing device.

The deepest part of the reinforced hangar is the berth for the Warlord-class aircraft. The bulkheads are several meters thick, and the independent Void Shield generators are on standby around the clock, with low-frequency energy humming through the floor and reaching deep into the skeletons. Eight Warlord-class Titans kneel on their adamantite pedestals, the barrels of their volcanic cannons pointing towards the dome, and the Void Shield standby indicator lights flashing faintly through the gaps in the armor.

All the Titans' armor has been repainted. Dark gray primer has covered the traces of old paintwork from the Punorius era, and the Breastplate and Shoulderplates are painted with the Garros gear and skull emblem.

A commander stood at the feet of the first general-class Titan. His left leg was a mechanical prosthetic, his right eye an optical lens, and the mental pulse interface at the back of his head protruded slightly beneath artificial skin. He had served in Lucis's Titan reserve for centuries, never having been assigned to a real Titan.

He looked up at the torso of the Warlord-class Titan—the cockpit embedded behind the multi-layered armored breastplate, nearly forty meters above the ground. He had stood in the simulator countless times, but the simulator's floor and ceiling were only two meters apart, so it didn't make him feel small. The real Titan would.

His back-brain interface emitted an active detection pulse. Standard identity verification format one—Lucis Titan backup sequence.

Serial number, years of service, mental connection test scores. A complete, even stereotypical, resume.

Titan did not respond.

He stood still. His right prosthetic arm hung at his side, the knuckles slightly curled.

Titan's standby indicator light flashed. Not from dark red to green. It went from dark red to an even darker red, then jumped back. Like a colossal beast turning over, adjusting its posture in its sleep.

He sent the pulse again. Same format, same content.

The indicator light did not change.

He raised his prosthetic arm, his fingertips touching the cold surface of the Titan's ankle armor plate. The temperature of millennia-old iron was transmitted through sensors. His fingers didn't tremble. But his breathing stopped.

"I'm here," he said. "I've waited over four hundred years. There was no place for me on the list. But you chose me."

Titan remained silent. But his fingers did not leave the armor plate.

Behind him, nearly a hundred assistant pilots and technical priests entered the hangar one after another. Some went to the weapons calibration platform, some squatted at the plasma conduit interface, and some climbed onto the maintenance platform. No one spoke. No one urged him on. The only sounds in the hangar were the low-frequency hum of binary pulses and the faint crackling of purifying herbs burning in the incense burner.

Cohen stood on the observation platform in the forging hall, overlooking the hangar area below. In the Warhound-class hangar, Dumas was calibrating the weapon system of the fourth Titan. In the main hangar, the Void Shield generators of the Marauder-class aircraft lit up one by one. In the reinforced hangar, the commander-in-chief was still standing at the feet of the General-class aircraft, his right fingertip pressed against the armor plate, not having moved.

Outside the safety line, Garros' apprentices were still taking notes. Ira Valin's data panel was already filled with the arrangement of latches and the routing of conduits. Behind her, Ivan stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, trying to make out the folding mechanism of the Warhound-class weapon arm.

Cohen stared at it for a few seconds.

Marcus stepped behind him. "Should we check out the Emperor-class hangar?"

"No need," Cohen said. "Lucis will surprise us."

He turned and walked down the corridor toward the ark's exit. Only the sound of his footsteps echoed in the corridor.

Meanwhile, deep within the forging hall of Wangshu, Enp Shakra sat in an adamantite chair, an electron beam connected to a data bus above his head, and servo skulls slowly hovering around him. His eyes were closed, and the standby indicator lights on his optical lenses flickered faintly beneath his eyelids. Hundreds of Starfortress mechs stood in rows on both sides of the hall, their optical lenses glowing a dark red light in the darkness.

They are Wangshu's last line of defense, and also the silent guard of the Great Sage Enpu. After extensive modifications, this clone of Cohen no longer needs life support devices in its silent state without any connection to consciousness.

The hundreds of thousands of planetary defense troops remaining on Garros are now in position at the dome and spaceport. Deputy Commander Lucé has assumed command, coordinating defenses from the command center beneath the dome. Even after the expeditionary fleet departs, the steel heart of Garros will continue to beat.

Cohen stepped out of the Ark's airlock and returned to the berth platform. Marcus followed behind.

"Captain, the Lucis First Task Force has sent out interstellar communications. They will wait in Lucis for the arrival of the Galos fleet before forming up together. The journey from Galos to Lucis is estimated to take thirty days. The Lucis First Expeditionary Group of the Apostolic Guard and the Intelligent Machine Legion have completed loading and are on standby in orbit."

Cohen glanced at the berth area. The cargo doors of the Indomitable were closing. The stern door of the Hercules was still open, and the last Chimera armored vehicle was slowly driving in. The boarding procession in the soldier compartment had already lined up to the end of the jet bridge. The young soldier's figure had long since disappeared behind the airlock.

"Tell Lucius that the Garros fleet will depart in three days," Cohen said.

Marcus noted it down on the data panel. "Yes."

Cohen turned and walked toward the Black Pearl's gangway. Kara followed behind him.

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