Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 116 Storm Attack 941.M41

The Silver Shrouds' guard ship, the Silent Prayer, maintained a precise distance from the outer edge of the combined fleet, sailing in sync with the main force. In warp space, ships cannot perform the complex maneuvers they do in physical space, but the formation spacing and relative positions still maintain a reality bubble separated by a Geller Field, yet connected through the navigator's psychic perception. The three Silver Shrouds' guard ships were positioned on the outer edge of the fleet, like sentinels keeping watch in the darkness.

On the bridge, Sister Valeria stood before the observation platform, eyes closed, sensing the surroundings. The first few days of the warp voyage were eerily calm. The readings from the Geller Field were as stable as if nailed to the dial—not a normal fluctuation, but a deliberate, unnatural perfection. There were no low-frequency pulsations, no psionic static; the warp whispers were unsettlingly low. Not quiet, but deathly still. It was as if something had suppressed the chaotic murmurs, leaving only an emptiness.

She traced her name in a sacred symbol on her chest, her lips moving silently. Two centuries of warfare had taught her that unusual calm was often a harbinger of disaster. The High Heaven would not remain so silent unless a higher power was deliberately concealing—or listening.

"May the divine emperor be mighty, and may all evil flee," she whispered in prayer. "May the holy flames burn, piercing through the treachery in this darkness."

The Star Speaker behind her pressed her fingers tightly against the psionic receiver array, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead. "Sister—the warp isn't right. It's not a storm, it's deathly silence. Something—suppressed all the whispers of chaos, leaving only a void."

Valeria did not respond. This calm lasted for several days, each day heavier than the last, like an invisible hand slowly pressing down on the surface of the water.

Then, a sudden, intense warning appeared—a burning intensity from the depths of her faith, an imperial warning exploding within her soul. Valeria's pupils contracted sharply, her hand gripping the hilt of her chainsword, her knuckles turning white. She didn't need a scan, she didn't need confirmation. Her faith had told her everything: danger was approaching—directly ahead. Something there; it moved.

"All fleet, psionic alert!" She turned to the communications sister and ordered, her voice steady, but each word sounding like it was being squeezed out from between her teeth. "Directly ahead—danger is approaching. This is not a natural phenomenon. We have been watched—"

Now, it moves. Faith is burning.

The communications nun's fingers danced across the transmission array, sending Valeria's warning via interstellar communication to the flagship Retribution-class, which in turn relayed it to all ships in the combined fleet.

The war at Armageddon has cast a massive psionic shadow over the warp. The Chaos Raiders—corrupted ships and traitorous warbands—that linger on the edge of the storm are trapped on the outer reaches of the system, unable to break through the barrier of the warp storm.

They wait in the darkness, hungry and restless.

Then, they sensed something.

It wasn't a command, nor a voice, but a deeper kind of "calibration." The raiders' navigators, their distorted psionic senses picking up on an unusual direction in the chaotic tide—not a whisper, not a command, but an irresistible pull. They stopped thinking, knowing only to rush forward following that signal.

Instead of explaining the reasons, only the direction is given. The prey's coordinates are clear, and the path is defined.

From the fissures in the warp storm, the Chaos Raiders surged forth, drawn by the pull. They didn't need to travel to approach T—

At the edge of the rift between subspace and reality, they were directly "projected" by a force to the flank of the Allied Fleet's flagship.

That wasn't sailing; it was being thrown there. Subspace rifts burst open beside the ship, blasphemous energy surging from them—but these rifts weren't in the vacuum outside the ship; they tore open directly through the inner bulkheads of the Black Pearl's hull.

Inside the bridge of the Black Pearl, the heavy armored porthole covers were tightly shut. Only the faint glow of the instrument panels and the cold colors of the indicator lights outlined the control consoles in the dim light. Navigator Sera was intently maintaining the course, her third eye gleaming faintly on her forehead.

Hera Voss's voice came through the interstellar communication channel, hoarse but steady: "Captain. The flagship interstellar communicator has relayed a warning from the Silver Shroud Order—psychic disturbances have been detected ahead, and multiple anomalous signal sources are approaching. These are not ships on regular voyages, but—a rift is forming. The Silver Shroud Order requests that the entire fleet be on high alert for psychic activity."

The three Silver Robe Order watchtowers maintained a safe distance from the fleet, independently carrying out psionic surveillance. The nuns' astro-speakers were the first to detect the psionic disturbances preceding the rift's formation—not the background noise of warp turbulence, but a deliberate, targeted psionic disturbance. They immediately transmitted the alert via astro-communication to the flagship Retribution-class's astro-array, which then relayed it to all ships in the combined fleet. By the time Hera Voss received the signal, it already included the Silver Robe Order's initial assessment of the threat's direction.

Cohen was not on the bridge at the time. He was in his private workshop, pioneering routes for the Combined Fleet, and he almost never left.

The field was deployed at full power, maintaining the continuous extension of the clean passage around the Black Pearl.

Marcus pressed the communication button on the bridge, connecting to the private workshop's channel.

Cohen's voice came through the communication channel, calm and composed: "Confirmed. All ships on high alert. The garrison regiment is deployed according to the highest boarding defense plan."

In a quiet observation deck on the bridge, Isa Velen, a Zeta-class prophetic psionicist trained by the Mechanicus, one of two psionic mentor candidates from the Lucis Astral Court, possessed prophetic talent—her eyes were closed. The Silver Shroud's warning had already given the fleet direction and the nature of the threat, but her abilities sought to pinpoint more precise details: where would the rift tear open on the ship? Where would the boarding point be?

In her spiritual vision, images began to emerge. Not clear images, not precise coordinates. They were fragments, symbols, distorted perceptions brought about by the backlash of psychic energy: a dark red liquid seeping from the inside of a cabin wall; a blasphemous eye cracking open in the shadow of an engine; a twisted pipe bursting open, gushing black pus. These images were mixed with psychic noise and chaotic interference, blurry, overlapping, and difficult to decipher.

"—Passage—" Her lips moved, struggling to squeeze out words from the shards. "—Wall——Engine direction——Ventilation duct—"

Blood trickled from her nose. She raised her hand to wipe it away, her fingertips trembling. She didn't provide precise letter codes—prophecy couldn't go that far. But the silver shroud's warning had given her direction, and her spiritual vision filled in the gaps with the senses of several key locations. Marcus quickly marked several high-risk areas on the tactical platform: the main passage, the engine perimeter, and ventilation duct nodes.

"The garrison is deployed as planned!" he ordered. "Focus on defending the main passage and the outer perimeter of the engine!"

All ventilation duct nodes! First and Fourth Companies, advance! Second and Fifth Companies, stand by! Third Company, guard the outer perimeter of the bridge! Elite guards, on standby!

The alarm flashed red, and heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor. The First and Fourth Companies established positions at their pre-set defensive lines, bulletproof shields arrayed, and force field generators hummed. Castellan mechs blocked secondary passages, while armed sergeants set up firing positions at corners.

Elite guards were assembling deep within the area.

Cohen was in his private workshop. The field never stopped; the Black Pearl continued to carve out passages amidst the warp storm. His consciousness swept across the entire ship; everything was under control, and that was enough.

A crack appeared, and then it tore open.

The main passageway of Sector B. A shriek pierced the air before the sound. It didn't come from outside; rather, space itself, at the crack where the veil of reality had been breached, was pierced from the outside by a profane force. A ghostly green energy seeped from the edge of the crack, followed by a dark purple light, then the smell of sulfur and decay. There was no vibration from a ship colliding with its hull, no sensor signals indicating approaching ships. The crack appeared directly inside the bulkhead—not from outside the ship, but rather reality itself had created a fissure in the bulkhead, connecting to some untraceable coordinate in the subspace.

Chaos warriors poured out of the rift.

They were remnants of the Astartes Legion, who had betrayed the Emperor during the Horus Rebellion. Standing over two and a half meters tall, their power armor corroded by chaos for millennia, bone spurs sprouting from the edges of the plates, and the eight-pointed star on their chests replacing the Imperial double-headed eagle. Their eyes held only madness. Their movements, unnatural from teleportation, didn't seem to rush from the other end of the passage, but rather "squeezed" out from a rift, as if forcibly thrust into the ship's corridor from some unfit dimension.

At the entrance to the engine room in Zone G, the maintenance passage in Zone H, and the ventilation duct nodes, the same cracks simultaneously tore through reality.

Isa's prophetic directions—the passage, the engine, the pipe—all matched perfectly. Although she couldn't provide letter codes, the direction of the fragments was enough for the guard to be waiting there in advance.

A line of bulletproof shields stood in the center of the main passage in Sector B. Six shields were arranged side by side, with force field generators spreading a pale blue energy membrane across their surfaces. Mechs extended cannons from between the shields.

The first wave of Chaos Warriors crashed into the shield wall. Chainsaw axes cleaved the shield's surface, force field generators flickered violently, and energy membranes shrieked as they were sliced ​​by the serrated edges. Carlos crouched behind the bulletproof shield, drew a syringe from his waist, and felt his left hand on the injection port on the side of his neck armor—a standardized medical valve, painted with dark red identification paint. He inserted the needle.

The pale blue liquid was injected into the bloodstream, causing the pupils to dilate sharply, breathing to become heavy, and the power armor's output reading to spike instantly.

He pulled out the needle, casually stuffed the empty syringe back into the recycling bag on his waist, grabbed the handle of the bulletproof shield with his left hand, and picked up the explosive gun with his right.

"Catch up!" he shouted.

The veterans around him performed the same movements in perfect unison: pulling out the needle, feeling the neck armor interface, inserting, injecting, pulling out the needle, and retracting—like a precisely functioning machine. A row of six bulletproof shields advanced simultaneously. Explosive shells detonated on the Chaos Warriors' chest armor, blood spurting from the gaps. One Chaos Warrior knelt, then another fell. But there were more to come.

A Chaos Warrior bypassed a gap in the shield wall and charged into the defensive line from the flank. He didn't use a gun, but instead rammed a mech into the air with his shoulder armor, then swung his chainsaw axe horizontally. Explosive rifles fired simultaneously from multiple directions, and a dozen explosive rounds struck his torso; he finally fell.

"Cover up!" Carlos roared. The combatants in the back row, carrying spare bulletproof shields, thrust into the gap, and the force field generators hummed as they activated.

Entrance to the engine room in Zone G.

The 4th Company's bulletproof shields were arrayed at the entrance to the maintenance tunnel. Chaos Warriors poured out from the depths of the tunnel, some wielding flamethrowers. Orange-red flames exploded on the shields, peeling off the paint, but the shields themselves did not melt. Mechs returned fire from the sides of the shields, explosives detonating in the narrow tunnel, sending fragments of flesh and armor flying.

A Chaos Warrior leaped from the overhead ventilation duct, landing behind the Fourth Company's defensive line. He wasn't carrying a chainsaw axe, but gripped power gauntlets in both hands. He slammed his fist into a combatant's helmet, shattering the adamantite mask. The Fourth Company commander charged in from the flank, firing three shots into the back of the Chaos Warrior's neck with his explosive rifle. The bullets entered through his cervical spine and exited through his throat. The Chaos Warrior fell to his knees, but his right hand still gripped the edge of a bulletproof shield, his fingers clenching so tightly that the terracotta plate cracked. The Fourth Company commander drew his chainsaw sword and cleaved the Chaos Warrior's neck in two.

"Second Company, Fifth Company, come up and take over! First Company, Fourth Company, prepare to withdraw!" Kara's orders exploded in the garrison's channel.

The 2nd and 5th companies advanced from their standby areas, passed through gaps in fire, and established new firing positions at a corner further ahead.

The first and fourth companies took turns providing cover as the shield wall retreated, each impact of the bulletproof shields producing a dull thud. The withdrawn soldiers changed magazines and checked for damage to their power armor in the rear passage; no one spoke, only heavy breathing filled the air.

Relano is located deep within the main passage of Area B.

Three hell beasts emerged from the end of the passage. They were walking coffins corroded by chaos for tens of thousands of years, their armor plates welded shut onto layers of scrap iron, weapon platforms crudely grafted onto their bodies, and the barrels of their molten cannons still dripping molten metal. Their footsteps were heavy, each one causing the passage floor to tremble.

"Elite guards, follow them."

Twelve hundred people poured out of the waiting area. Rellano led the way, carrying only a bomb gun and a chainsaw sword, without a bulletproof shield.

"A barrage of heavy explosives, aimed at the lower limbs. Bulletproof shield for cover."

The retreating troops immediately turned around, setting up heavy explosive guns at the corner of the passage to fire. The fourth company's bulletproof shields formed a line in front, with force field generators running at full power to absorb the Hellbeasts' counterattack fire.

The armor-piercing rounds of the heavy-explosive bombs slammed into the lower limbs of the first Hellbeast, shattering its armor and bursting hydraulic lines, spraying milky-white hydraulic oil onto the tunnel walls. The Hellbeast lost its balance and collapsed to its knees. Elite guards poured out from the flank maintenance tunnel, and molten metal bombs slammed into its rear engine bay. The explosion tore the Hellbeast's upper body to shreds.

The second Hellbeast turned its cannon, aiming the molten metal cannon at the line of bulletproof shields. A blinding white beam slammed into the central shield, causing the force field generator to overload and flash. A fist-sized hole was melted through the center of the terracotta shield. The combatants holding the shields were thrown off balance by the shockwave, molten metal fragments embedded in their power armor's chest plates.

"Cover up!" the fourth company commander roared. The combatants in the rear rank hoisted spare bulletproof shields and inserted them into the gap, and the force field generator restarted.

The elite guards moved back from the other side, using the same tactic. A molten metal bomb was attached to their backs and detonated.

The third Hellbeast attempted to retreat, but the passage was narrow and it was too slow to turn. Rellano burst out from the flank, his chainsaw sword slicing into the gap in the cockpit, the blade jamming. He loosened the hilt, drew his molten pistol from his waist, pressed it against the crack, and pulled the trigger.

The hellbeast's torso exploded from the inside.

Rellano stepped back, glanced at the battlefield, then stepped forward and pulled the chainsaw sword from the gap in the cockpit of the hellbeast wreckage. The chaotic blood on the blade evaporated into white smoke in the high temperature, dripping down the hilt.

"Elite guards withdraw and stand by. 1st and 4th companies replenish their supplies. 2nd and 5th companies remain on alert."

In the nineteenth minute, the final rift closed itself deep within the ship. The psionic disturbances of the chaotic ship began to weaken, and the dark red spot of light rapidly receded, disappearing into the background noise of the warp turbulence.

Hera Voss's voice came through the interstellar communication channel again: "Captain. The flagship interstellar communicator has relayed confirmation from the Silver Shroud Order—the psionic signal ahead has weakened to background levels. Threat cleared."

Marcus reported over the channel: "Captain, the garrison is taking stock of casualties. The Silver Robe Order has confirmed the threat has been eliminated."

Cohen's voice was calm: "Understood."

The casualty figures came in: dozens killed, nearly a hundred seriously wounded. The First Company lost two bulletproof shields; one was penetrated by a thermobaric cannon, and the other was hit in the same spot by repeated explosive shells, causing the adamantite reinforcement layer to peel off. The Fourth Company lost one shield. The elite guard suffered a dozen or so minor wounds, but no fatalities.

Cohen stood up and walked out of the private workshop. The lighting panels in the corridor shone with a cold white light in daytime mode. He walked along the main corridor toward the medical pod.

The airtight door of the medical ward slid open. He didn't stop, but walked slowly along the corridor between the beds. A spherical field with a radius of twenty-five meters silently followed his movement, enveloping each bed in turn. In his consciousness, the vital signs of the seriously injured patients stabilized one by one—bleeding points closed, bone fragments returned to their original positions, and severed blood vessels were reconnected.

Liz looked up at his back without saying a word, but tightened her grip on the pliers.

Cohen stepped out of the medical bay. His boots clattered dully on the metal floor of the corridor. In the wrecked spaceship, he could save everyone. Now there were too many, millions following his path, and a single boarding maneuver had killed dozens and wounded nearly a hundred. He couldn't save everyone. The casualty figures would only rise.

He entered the private workshop, the hatch closing behind him. The passageway continued.

On a rearguard ship, the Silver Robe Order's Star Speakers continued their surveillance. They were the fleet's ears reaching into the warp, discerning signals of threat amidst the chaotic whispers. Isa Velen slumped wearily in her chair, her pale face streaked with blood. Her deputy handed her a nutrient solution laced with sedatives; she sipped it slowly, her fingers still trembling slightly. But she remained on the verge of consciousness.

In the darkness that had just receded from her vision, she caught a lingering echo that shouldn't exist—not the frenzied noise of a Chaos Raider, but a more subtle fluctuation, almost submerged by the warp turbulence. It was as if someone had plucked a string in the distance and was now quietly waiting for the echo.

This was just a test.

All disturbances beyond fate must be taken seriously.

She didn't say it aloud. Perhaps it was just an illusion, or a lingering auditory hallucination from the backlash of psionic energy. But in the dark depths of Warhammer Universe, some things never create coincidences. They only weave probabilities.

Sera was fully focused, the navigation eye on his forehead flashing steadily, ensuring the fleet did not stray from the narrow route pioneered at great cost by his companions.

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