Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 119 The Steel Roars

Under the cover of the Galos fleet, the Fireseed advanced toward near-Earth orbit.

The flagship of the Combined Fleet, the "Craftsman's Hammer," along with the two Mars-class cruisers, the "Iron Hammer" and the "Steelwall," unleashed a barrage of fire on the flanks of the Orc space wreckage. The Nascent Soul-class battleships' macrogun salvos and light spear arrays intertwined to create a scorching web of light, tearing wounds of death in the darkness; the Nova Cannons charged at their bows, their eerie blue glow foreshadowing devastating attacks. The two Mars-class battleships also had their bow Nova Cannons charging, while their broadside macrogun arrays continued to roar. Although the Fireseed itself did not participate in the frontline gun battle, its broadside point defense arrays continuously intercepted approaching Orc assault boats, clearing the flanks for the main fleet ahead.

But inside the Titan hangar level of the Fireseed, there was no sound of cannon fire. Only hymns.

The binary hymn was continuously output from the speakers in the hangar dome, its low-frequency hum reflecting back and forth between the adamantite frame.

That was the awakening ritual of the machine spirit. It wasn't superstition, it was a program. In this universe, programs and faith are the same thing.

Dumas stood at the feet of the Emperor-class Titan "Burning Wrath". His robes were embroidered with the emblem of the Lucis Temple, and his right arm, from the elbow down, was a mithril mechanical structure. He looked up at the nearly hundred-meter-high steel shell, and at the mithril-cast Emperor statue atop the cathedral spire.

For weeks, he hadn't left the hangar. And not just him. Everyone—Lucis's technical priest, Garros's Titan apprentice—was completely devoted to this Imperial Titan. Day and night. Not the servitude of the crew, but the perseverance of the living.

The neural interface array in the cockpit was completed in the third week. The core coil handed over by Lucis was installed, and Dumas personally calibrated the signal delay of every data line. When the neural interface in the back of his head docked with the array, his pupils shrank to pinpoints for a fleeting moment—not out of fear, but out of the weight of centuries. It had finally found its way out.

The core coil of the Void Shield generator was installed in the fourth week. It wasn't a replacement, it was a complete upgrade. The completeness level was pushed up from 70% to 90%. The remaining 100% was the base for the cockpit neural interface array and weapon interfaces, which the technical priests needed to sift through the Ark's spare parts library piece by piece, test each piece, and modify each piece.

They don't sleep. The neural interface outputs binary impulses to maintain minimal wakefulness, and the Mechanic's meditation protocol suppresses fatigue.

Data boards were piled up like small mountains on the temporary worktables in the hangar, the oil stains from the holy oil applicator had hardened into a dark crust on the table, and the ashes from the incense burner had accumulated layer upon layer.

The soul of that Emperor-class Titan awakened three times during the voyage.

The first time. The machine's indicator light jumped from dark red to dark green, then jumped back in less than half a second. Dumas stood at the cockpit door, saying nothing.

The second time. The indicator light stayed on steadily for almost a minute, then began flashing at a frequency that wasn't a fault code, but a different frequency. Like someone repeatedly opening their eyes in the dark, confirming they were still there, and then closing them again. Dumas's robotic arm retracted from the access panel and wiped itself on his robe. Not because his hands were dirty.

The third time, the day before the fleet was to arrive at Armageddon. All components were installed, all calibration protocols were executed, and all self-tests passed. The indicator light transitioned from dark red to a stable, continuous, and unwavering dark green.

Then it didn't go out.

Inside the cathedral's cockpit, lead pilot Sebastian Torres gripped the control sticks, his head connected to the Titan's neural network array via a data cable. He came from the Lucis Astral Legion's reserve roster, having been on the waiting list for over three hundred years. Not because he wasn't qualified, but because the Titan pilot's position had never been vacant—until now.

The Titan's machine spirit opened its eyes in the darkness.

Not through sensors, but through a direct injection of scorching light into his consciousness. Torres' pupils shrank to pinpoints in that instant, blood gushed from his nose, dripping onto his pilot suit. His fingers did not loosen their grip on the control stick.

He sensed a wall—a living, warm, breathing wall. The soul of an Emperor-class Titan wasn't as ferocious as that of a Warrior-class; it was heavier, more stable, and more ancient. Like a mountain that had slumbered for an unknown time, magma surged deep within, yet it still waited.

Torres reached out his consciousness and touched the wall.

The wall cracked. Not violently torn apart, but deliberately created a fissure. What poured out of that fissure was not data, not pulses, but the feeling of an immeasurably long loneliness, the pain of being corroded by the warp, the sorrow of the previous pilots' flesh and blood drying up in the cockpit, and the light that suddenly shone in during the storm.

Torres's eyes were bloodshot, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He did not let go.

The machine spirit didn't roar. It merely whispered a single word.

"combustion."

Torres' lips moved, uttering a hoarse voice: "Burning Flames—All systems in position."

The indicator lights in the cockpit jumped from dark red to dark green—a stable, continuous, and unwavering green.

The frequency of the binary hymn changed completely at that moment. It wasn't a change in rhythm, but something deeper. All the speakers fell silent for a moment. Then, from the depths of the Emperor-class's chest, a low, indistinct hum, unlike the sound of machinery, emanated. It wasn't the sound of an engine ignition. It was its first breath.

The hangar erupted in chaos. Binary pulses simultaneously spilled from the back-of-the-head interfaces of over a dozen tech priests, colliding in the air with a piercing noise. Some fell to their knees, the fingertips of their prosthetic limbs striking the metal floor, sending up chaotic fragments of binary data. Others roared at the dome, their vocal generators overloaded and crackling with electrical current. Still others poured entire bottles of holy oil onto the Titan's ankle armor plates, the oil dripping down the adamantite veins.

Dumas did not kneel. His right mechanical hand pressed against the inspection panel, his knuckles trembling slightly. The biological fingers of his left hand unconsciously twitched on his robe. His lips moved, uttering a whisper somewhere between binary hymns and human language—not technology, but faith.

"Burn the flames of fury," he whispered. A lifetime of waiting. He had been on the waiting list for Lucis's reserve for far too long. It wasn't his turn, but he had waited for this moment.

He looked up at the cockpit. Dark green indicator lights burned in the darkness. His prosthetic arm rose, fingertips touching the ankle armor of the Emperor-class Titan. Cold. His breath stopped.

Then he sensed something. Not from his feet, not from the cockpit, not from any instruments. It came from above. From the dome of the cathedral, from the imperial statue cast in pure gold. Those eyes, cast to gaze ahead, flickered slightly in the cold white beam of the searchlight. Not a reflection of light.

Dumas raised his head. The icon's eyes had returned to their metallic color. He didn't move. Then he lowered his head, his right fist pressed against the gear and skull emblem on his chest, and performed a gear salute.

Behind him, dozens of Tech Priests and Titan Apprentices simultaneously performed the Gear Salute.

Inside the Warrior-class hangar, the indicator lights on all eight Warrior-class Titans turned dark green simultaneously. Not one after the other, but at the same time. The souls of the Emperor-class Titans awakened the entire legion with their will. A pulse emanated from the feet of the Emperor-class Titans, passing through several decks, through their adamantite frames, and reaching every corner of the hangar.

The commander sat in the cockpit of "Unyielding Wrath." Data cables at the back of his head connected to the Titan's neural interface array. His consciousness was merging with the machine's soul. Not control, but symbiosis.

At this moment, his consciousness connected with the machine's soul. He sensed a wall—a living, warm, breathing wall.

The machine spirit's consciousness was like a volcano that had been dormant for who knows how long, with magma surging deep within. It was waiting for him.

The commander's brain interface overloaded, blood gushing from his nose and dripping onto his pilot suit. His eyes were bloodshot, and the fingers of his prosthetic limbs gripped the control stick tightly.

He did not let go.

The machine spirit roars. Not a sound, but a will—to fight. Crush them.

The commander's body trembled in the cockpit, but he didn't smile. His lips were pursed and covered in blood. His voice came through the communication channel, hoarse, but each word was delivered with extreme composure: "Unyielding Wrath—All systems in position."

The indicator light on the second Warlord-class aircraft turned green. The third, the fourth, the fifth. The sixth, the seventh, the eighth. The six Titans in the Marauder-class hangar followed closely behind. At this moment, the twenty-four Warhound-class aircraft in the Warhound hangar completed their final weapon calibration.

The entire Titan Legion glowed with a dark green standby indicator light in the darkness. From the Emperor-class to the Warhound-class, from the cathedral's spires to the Warhound's claws, the souls of every divine machine resonated at the same frequency. That wasn't technology; that was a miracle.

The bell tower atop the cathedral began to toll. It wasn't struck by human hands, but rather by the resonance of energy surging as the mechanical soul awakened. The tolling was deep and long, each strike causing the adamantine skeleton to tremble slightly.

In a secluded cabin on the upper deck of the Fireseed, Sister Valeria, the Great Sister of the Silver Robes, led twelve combat nuns in a final pre-battle prayer. They would not intervene in the Titan hangar, nor participate in the landing sequence. Valeria stood at the head of the line, her chainsword held upright before her, her hands clasped on the hilt. Behind her, the nuns sat silently in the darkness, their chainswords resting on their laps. They awaited not the landing order, but the heretics that might roam from the depths of the Deep Nest—

Valeria's "traces of heresy".

On the other side of the Fireseed's hangar, the order was completely different. The wings of the Thunderfighters were folded, the tail hatches of the Valkyrie transports were open, and the belly compartments of the Devourer transports occupied the largest berths. Service servitors darted under the wings, loading ammunition boxes into the racks. There were no hymns, only the clanging of metal and the screeching of engines during testing. The airmen needed no awakening ritual; their war machines never slept.

On the four Odysseus-class combat transport ships surrounding the Fireseed, the officers and soldiers of the Garros Legion had completed their final equipment checks. The lights in the soldiers' quarters were off; only breathing could be heard in the darkness. They couldn't see the Titan's awakening, nor feel the tremor of the hymn. But they knew. Every slight tremor of the ship told them: the behemoth had awakened.

There were no hymns in the Knights' Quarters deep within the hangar. Only silence.

Nearly a hundred knight mechs stood in formation in the darkness, their optical lenses switched off. The chosen ones dispatched by Lucis had completed their coronation rites, the echoes of past generations within the chair core now merging with them. The nimble silhouettes of the Ranger type shimmered faintly at the edges of the searchlights, the chainsaw blades of the Paladin type hung limply to the ground in standby mode, and the shoulder-mounted explosive turrets of the Priest type cast heavy shadows in the dim light. They did not pray; the echoes of the chair core were their prayer.

The electors need no words. They only need to wait.

Captain Edric's voice came over the loudspeaker: "Attention all ships. Near Earth orbit clearance progress—70 percent."

It is expected to enter its designated orbit in twenty minutes.

No one responded from the hangar. Silence itself was the response.

But there was another meeting before that.

Cohen pressed the communication button, and the encrypted channel connected to the bridges of all the capital ships in the Garros fleet. On the holographic projection table in the Black Pearl's reception room, dozens of image windows lit up one after another.

Marcus was at the first window, the blue halo of his right mechanical eye steadily expanding and contracting. Vera was at the second, her ponytail neatly tied, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. Cole was at the third, his uniform collar buttoned tightly, his face serious. Edric entered from the bridge of the Fireseed. The captains of the four Odysseus-class destroyers, the squadron leaders of the ten Cobra destroyers, and the commanders of the Luna-class cruisers were all online.

Cohen did not sit down. He stood in front of the holographic projection table, his hands resting on the tabletop.

"Invernus. It fell a few days ago, but the hive still has a signal. The combined fleet has confirmed it—this is the only window of opportunity. The orcs haven't established a firm foothold; their factories and air defenses haven't been dismantled yet. Retake the hive, tear through their defenses." His gaze swept across each video feed. "This time, a swift strike is needed. It will be a siege. There will definitely be urban warfare. This is the first time we've waged a war of this scale and intensity against the orcs."

He paused for a moment.

"According to intelligence from the Imperial Navy's Armageddon Fleet, the orc defense system in the middle layer of Infurnus has two key nodes: the anti-air array on the east side and the void shield generator on the west side. Taking them down will disable the anti-air firepower network and shields in the middle layer of the hive, making subsequent Titan delivery and airdrop operations much safer."

His finger touched two points of light on the holographic map. He then drew the first arrow on the map.

"Kara. The 1,200 men you lead are the elite of the elite." He looked at Kara's image window. "This team needs a name."

Kara didn't speak. In the holographic projection, her body leaned forward slightly, less than an inch, and her right index finger tapped lightly twice on the edge of the tactical table—a habit she developed during her service in the Guardians of the Order, something she did before every mission.

She made a movement to suppress her heartbeat. Then the corner of her mouth twitched, not in a smile, but with that brief tension, like a blade about to be drawn.

"Storm," Cohen said. "From today onwards, the Storm Assault Team of the Garros Legion will be under your command."

Kara raised her right hand from the edge of the tactical platform, clenched her fist, and pressed it against her left chest. It wasn't the Mechanicus's gear salute, but the old-fashioned military salute of the Astragalus Army. The movement was crisp and clean, without an inch wasted. "Stormtroopers, warded." Her voice wasn't loud, but every word sounded as if it had been chiseled from a sheet of metal.

He drew the first arrow on the map, pointing to the air defense array on the east side.

"Part of the Stormstrike Force, targeting the eastern air defense array. The airborne pods will be launched fifteen minutes before the armored units enter the atmosphere."

He pointed to the Void Shield Generator on the west side.

"The other part is led by Rellano and is in charge of the Void Shield Generator on the west side."

In Relano's video feed, the longtime veteran leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. The titanium alloy plate on his forehead gleamed with a grayish-white metallic sheen in the cold light, and the surgical sutures running from his left temple to his right temple cast subtle shadows on his skin. He didn't nod, nor did he clench his fists; he simply lowered his arms from his chest and placed his hands on his knees.

The light gray eyes stared at the point of light on the holographic map and blinked.

That was the only change in his expression. For Rellano, that was already a promise.

His palm rested on the edge of the sand table.

"Storm Assault Team. The Orcs will spot the falling blades immediately. You must execute decisively and swiftly, regardless of the cost, to achieve your objective. Fighter squadrons will provide cover. After the anti-aircraft arrays and Void Shield generators are cleared, the armored forces will begin their large-scale landing. The command post will land with the armored forces, and Cole and I will establish a command post on the surface to take over the overall situation."

Cole's voice came from the image window. The face of the commander of the Garros Planetary Defense Force appeared particularly serious in the holographic projection; his uniform collar was buttoned up, and the Garros gear and skull insignia on his epaulets gleamed a dull silver in the cold light.

"Governor, the landing sequence has been drawn up."

A tactical map unfolds on the holographic projection platform.

"First wave, fighter squadrons. Thunder and Valkyries will prioritize providing cover for the orbital airborne troops, then establish an aerial corridor around the landing zone. Attack aircraft will conduct the initial clearing of ground forces. Second wave, armored formations. Lemanrus and Chimeras will lead the charge, tearing open a breach on the ground to expand the landing zone. Third wave, Knight Mechs. Deployed after the armored formations have stabilized, using their mobility to penetrate deep into the hive city." He drew several arrows on the map. "Fourth wave, Titans. First deploy Warhounds and Raiders to establish fire support points around the landing zone. Deploy General-class units after the landing zone is fully secured. Emperor-class one..."

He paused for a moment.

"Emperor-class aircraft carrier on standby. Deploy it only after the landing site is fully secured and the Orc heavy infantry have appeared. Its machine spirit has just awakened; it cannot be risked in the chaos."

Cohen nodded.

"Where's the Garros PDF?"

"All personnel land." Cole's tone was unwavering. "All combatants, all equipment, all supplies. Deploy them in batches between the first and fourth waves. No reserves. No backup. Send them all in."

There was a moment of silence in the reception room.

Cohen straightened up, his gaze sweeping across each video window.

"I landed with the armored forces and established a command post on the surface. After I entered Invernus, the Black Pearl was jointly commanded by Marcus and Vera, and was subject to the orders of the Combined Fleet Headquarters. Marcus was responsible for the Black Pearl's navigation, and Vera assisted the fleet in coordination."

In Marcus's image window, the aperture of his right mechanical eye contracted slightly before returning to normal focus. He didn't speak, but simply nodded slightly.

In Vera's video feed, her lips were slightly pursed, and her fingers tapped lightly on the armrest. Then she spoke, her voice steady: "Received."

Cohen looked at all the video windows.

"The Invernus hive is still sending signals and resisting. Billions of imperial subjects in this hive are being slaughtered and enslaved. Save them."

He pressed the communication button.

Dumas withdrew his hand from the Emperor-class Titan's ankle. His prosthetic arm hung limply at his side, his adamantite knuckles stained with carbonized, black powdery remnants of holy oil that had seeped from the sealed interface of the access panel. He glanced at it but didn't wipe it away. Those were traces left from the last time this Titan was coated with holy oil. No one knew when or by whom it was left. It had been served before. Now it was their turn.

He turned and strode towards the hangar exit. His footsteps tapped out a steady rhythm on the metal grille. Behind him, the indicator light on the Emperor-class Titan "Burning Fury" remained steadily lit.

The Spark continued its ascent to near-Earth orbit. The Titan Legion was ready.

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