Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 121 Divine Strategist Deploys (1)

The smoke and dust from the landing site had not yet cleared when the explosions overhead continued unabated.

On the high ground surrounding Invernus's hive, dozens of massive "Devourer" transport ships had landed. Their heavily armored noses split open, and retractable ramps crashed to the ground. The tracks of Chimera armored personnel carriers crushed the wreckage of orc sentry positions, while the barrels of Lemanrus battle tanks pointed at the crudely constructed fortifications along the hive's outer edge. The eight barrels of Hydra self-propelled anti-aircraft guns slowly rotated, and anti-aircraft arrays were deployed around the armored forces.

A Orcish Pikeman fighter jet streaked low overhead, trailing thick smoke; a third of its left wing had been sheared off. It rolled twice over the landing zone before crashing into a pile of rubble on the eastern side of the high ground. Debris from the explosion struck the nearest Chimera armored vehicle, leaving several scratches on the side of its turret.

"Hydra No. 5, east side airspace confirmed."

A brief report came through the communications channel from the anti-aircraft gun crew. The combined fleet was still providing fire cover from orbit, but the airspace above the landing zone was never truly clear. The remaining Orc aircraft kept emerging from the gaps in the space wreckage, and one or two would always manage to slip through the barrage of fire, streaking towards the ground in flames.

Cohen descended the retractable ramp of the "Devourer" alongside General Cole, commander of the Garros Planetary Defense Force. Cohen's sage's robes draped over his power armor, the hood undone, his helmet hanging from his waist. Cole wore standard Garros power armor, the edges of the gear and skull insignia on his breastplate worn smooth by sand. His staff, also in power armor, followed closely behind, carrying data pads and encrypted communication terminals. The accompanying engineers had already begun digging a command post bunker on the leeward slope of the high ground and setting up field communication antennas.

A stray bullet, whether fragment of an orc anti-aircraft gun or debris from a crashed plane, struck the edge of the designated command post location, blasting up a small pile of rubble. The engineers didn't stop; some simply turned their heads and wiped the dust from their faces with their shoulders.

"Governor, the command post is located over there," Cole said, pointing to the rocky platform.

Cohen nodded, his gaze sweeping over the unfolding armored formation. The second batch of "Devourers" was landing, and engineering servitors began unloading crates of ammunition and spare parts. Taiyuan hadn't arrived yet. Following the landing sequence, the armored forces would establish a landing zone first, followed by the Knight mechs, and finally the Titans.

Kara's voice came through the communication panel first.

"The commando team has captured the anti-aircraft array. All four turrets have been destroyed. Clearing the area is underway; preparations are underway for withdrawal."

Immediately following, Rellano's voice came through another channel: "Void Shield generator destroyed. All three shielding layers destroyed. Squad is withdrawing."

Cohen pressed the communication button: "Air defense array mission complete. Assault teams move eastward to rendezvous with armored forces. Western detachments return towards the landing zone. Titan delivery window is open; do not linger."

He told Cole, "Knight mechs, you can begin deployment."

Cole swiped on the data panel and connected to the bridge of the Fireseed. "Captain Edric. Threat over the landing zone has been cleared. Knight mech deployment window confirmed."

"Spark received. Knight mech delivery—initiating."

Fifteen minutes later, the first transport ships emerged from the clouds. Three Orcish Pikeman fighters burst from the flanks, their cannons sparking against the transport ships' armor. The three Hydra cannons at the edge of the landing zone opened fire simultaneously, their twenty-four barrels weaving a low-altitude barrage. One ship had its wing severed and tumbled to the ground; the second was hit in the engine and streaked across the top of the transport ships, trailing thick smoke; the third attempted to climb but was struck by the second volley of bullets, its cockpit pierced, and it disintegrated in mid-air.

A piece of charred armor plate hit the edge of the stern hatch of the transport boat, bounced off, and landed less than twenty meters from Cohen.

The transport ship landed. The Ranger-type Knight mechs stepped out, their drive wheels locked, and thrusters spraying ion jets to stabilize the machines. The second and third, the first batch of six Ranger-type mechs, deployed in reconnaissance formation in front of the landing zone.

The second batch of transport ships landed. The Paladin-type knight mech was a size larger than the Ranger-type, the serrated teeth of its chainsaw sword reflecting a cold light, and the shoulder-mounted explosive turrets began to rotate upon landing, with their muzzles pointing towards the middle layer of the hive.

The orcs' retaliatory fire came from the middle of the hive city—several crudely made rockets trailing dark red contrails. One exploded at the edge of the landing zone, sending debris crashing into a paladin-type leg armor; another veered off course, exploding in dust behind the armored forces; and a third was intercepted by a ranger-type point-defense laser.

The third transport ship opened its belly hatch mid-air, and the missile pod launchers on the priest-type knight mechs popped open. Six missiles, trailing white contrails, hurtled towards the still-smoking launch sites in the middle layer of the hive. Explosions erupted one after another, smoke and dust billowed, and the orcs' rocket launches ceased.

The Priest type is the heaviest knight mech, featuring twin heavy-duty bomb cannons on its shoulders and missile pods on its back. The cooling grilles glow with a dark red light, and the turrets lock onto new targets the moment they land.

Nearly a hundred knight mechs lined up behind the landing zone: the Ranger type was in front, responsible for reconnaissance and flanking maneuvers; the Paladin type was in the middle, providing frontal fire suppression; and the Priest type was at the rear, providing long-range fire support.

Cohen stood before the sand table, his fingers pressing on two key nodes in the middle layer of Invernus. Without destroying them, the knight mechs' transport ships would be torn apart by orc anti-air fire.

"Ranger-types will infiltrate the flanks of the hive city, Paladin-types will advance with the armored forces, and Priest-types will establish fire support points behind the landing zone." Cole's instructions were sent to each Knight mech via encrypted pulses.

The Ranger type took the lead, speeding towards the ruins on the east side of the hive city. The Paladin type followed closely behind the armored forces, their steps steady, their chainswords humming softly. The Priest type deployed behind the landing zone, missile pods opening their launch hatches, waiting for the armored forces to breach the outer defenses and mark the coordinates for heavy fire.

Cohen turned and walked back to the command bunker. Another P-40 fighter jet, trailing flames, streaked past and crashed on the north side of the landing zone, the shockwave causing the blast armor plates on top of the bunker to tremble.

"What about Titan?" he asked.

"The two heavy elevators of the Fireseed are being loaded. Each elevator can carry four Wardog-class or equivalent tonnage at a time. The Warhound-class is being loaded into the first elevator, and the first batch is expected to land in thirty minutes. The Marauder-class and Wardog-class will be in subsequent batches."

Emperor-class ships on standby—deployed after the landing site is fully secured and the Orc heavy infantry appear.

Cohen nodded, his gaze falling on the sand table. The staff officers placed the markers representing the enemy's and our own positions one by one.

The binary hymn surged from the Fireseed's communication array, loading onto every communication band: the Imperial Navy's tactical channel, the Astragalus's command band, the Hive Defenders' civilian frequencies, and even public beacons largely jammed by the Orks. Every operational communication node across Amegadoton received the same message simultaneously. It wasn't voice, it wasn't text; it was the oldest hymn of the Binary Mechanicus, the Titan Legion's war declaration before the Great Crusade. Its rhythm was slow and heavy, like the heart of a colossal beast pounding in the darkness.

Haldis's Hive. Commissar Arrek stood atop the wrecked church bell tower, the adamantite power claw on his right arm gleaming darkly in the fire of battle. The communications officer ran up and pointed the terminal speaker at him. A binary pulse surged forth, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat. Arrek's power claw paused for a moment.

"By the Emperor," his voice was hoarse, "our reinforcements have arrived. Tell everyone that the Emperor's wrath is descending from the orbit."

The news spread from the clock tower, from person to person, from one trench to another.

Acheron's Nest City. Eastern Front.

The orcish offensive reached its peak on the thirty-seventh day. From the eastern horizon to the outer defenses of the hive capital, a grey-green tide filled every inch of scorched earth. Each wave of impact was in the millions; before the debris of the previous wave had even cooled, the next wave surged up, trampling over the corpses of its comrades. This was not war; it was geological activity.

The defensive line had been compressed three times, and the last trench had been breached seven times. The entire population was mobilized: factory workers, monks, school teachers—everyone who could still stand was on the defensive line.

The bells of the Anglican Cathedral never ceased to tolling. At this moment, binary hymns exploded simultaneously from every still-functioning communication terminal. The first to understand was a technical priest whose pulse, transmitted through the welding torch handle and fed into his consciousness via a neural interface, proclaimed: "The Titan Legion's declaration of war! Our Titans have come!" The message, a roar and tears, echoed across every trench.

At the frontline first-aid station, a medical nun was stitching up a wound. A binary hymn came from a communication terminal in the corner. Her surgical forceps paused, and tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping onto the soldier's wound. "The Emperor hasn't forgotten us," she whispered, her fingers steadily finishing the last knot.

In the cathedral's crypt, the priest knelt before the imperial icon. Binary hymns seeped from the metal of the icon's base. He raised his head, tears streaming from his sunken eyes. "Your servant has come. With steel, with judgment."

The tolling of bells and the pulses of binary hymns began to overlap and resonate. On the defensive line, a commander lowered his binoculars, his voice hoarse but each word firm and resolute: "Tell everyone reinforcements are here. The Titan Legion is already on track. Hold on a little longer, hold on until those steel colossi reach our lines. Then, we can go back alive."

The message spread through every trench. Not in words, but in the rhythm of binary pulses. On the defensive line, a worker who had been on a factory assembly line just three days ago crouched in a trench, clutching a laser gun he had scavenged. Binary chants emanated from the metal of his barrel. He lowered his head, forehead against the butt, his lips moving: "Emperor. Titan." Then he looked up, aiming in the direction of the next wave of orcs.

Acheron did not retreat an inch. Because the Titans were on their way.

The Nest of Invernus, the deepest of the earth. Those who had endured for days deep underground, those who had repeatedly sent "Save us" messages through dilapidated communication equipment, heard the binary hymn from the metal walls of the pipes, from the iron bars of the ventilation shafts, from the metal wreckage of scrapped machinery. The echoes of the machine spirit seeped from the slumbering metal, seeped into the walls, seeped into the ears of every survivor.

In the basement of a field hospital, a soldier with both legs blown off lay on a stretcher. A vibration emanated from the metal brace of his left leg, creeping up his spine. He opened his eyes, his lips moving, repeating the same word, "Titan."

In the underground bunker of the resistance command, a military communication terminal dug out of the ruins emitted a hissing sound of electricity.

Binary pulses surged from the speaker, and the signal officer's hand trembled as he pressed his earpiece against it.

Deep within the Dead Nest, in an abandoned workshop, several ragged people huddled around a resonator cobbled together from scrap parts. A binary hymn seeped through the metal walls of the pipes, captured, amplified, and translated by the resonator. They knelt—not out of fear, but because they recognized the rhythm. It was the war prayer of the Mechanicus, the proclamation of the Titan legions before their departure during the Great Crusade. The message traveled along the dark passages to every corner where life still lingered.

In the communications room of the Governor's Mansion in Tartarus, Governor Hermann von Strab rested his hands on the edge of the table, his mechanical prosthetic eye's aperture minimized, as he recited a prayer to a binary hymn. Behind him, his staff reviewed the battle reports pouring in from various channels.

"Governor, reinforcements have arrived. This is the declaration of war from the Mechanicus Titan Legion."

Von Straub didn't turn around, his voice hoarse: "Titans? Our Titan Iron Skull Legion—how could I forget?"

"Governor—perhaps the Emperor has sent them back again."

Tempestora's hive. Uffin is gone, but the main hive is still under attack. In an underground command bunker, a colonel leans against an ammunition box, clutching half a piece of compressed rations. A communications terminal sits in the corner, its speaker emitting binary pulses. He stops chewing, and the rations slip through his fingers.

"The Machines of God." His voice was hoarse. "The Empire has not abandoned us."

On orbit, on the Fireseed's delivery deck, the first batch of Warhound-class Titans were pushed onto the heavy elevators. Each elevator carried twelve plasma blast cannons, their confinement fields activated, their muzzles glowing with a faint blue light. The airlock on the delivery deck opened, and the elevators descended from the Fireseed's belly, their thrusters igniting as they plunged into the planet's atmosphere.

Cohen looked up and saw two heavy elevators emerge from the clouds and land in front of the landing zone through gaps in the blast armor plates at the top of the bunker.

Twenty-four Warhound-class Titans descended from the elevator one by one, their hydraulic cushioning systems, featuring a reverse-joint structure on each leg, steadily supporting their bodies and leaving deep footprints on the scorched earth. After exiting the elevator, they quickly deployed into an assault formation, locking onto the orcish defenses surrounding the hive capital.

At that very moment, the rhythm of the binary hymn abruptly changed. The previously slow, heavy heartbeat transformed into a rapid war drumbeat, the intervals between pulses compressed to a third of their original length, each burst like a cannon firing right next to the ear. It wasn't just the whisper of a Titan's soul; it was twenty-four Warhound-class machines joining in simultaneously, followed by six Marauder-class, and then four Warlord-class. The rhythm accelerated, the pulses overlapped, transforming the resonance of the chest cavity into the tremor of the bones, and from the tremor of the bones into the burning of the brain.

In the ruins of the command post in the middle level of Invernus's hive, the communications array welded to the half-collapsed dome suddenly exploded with a piercing noise. It wasn't the binary hymn used by the Empire—it was the Orks' own. The communication terminals looted from the Imperial armory by the Tech-Masters had been crudely modified into Waaagh! broadcast towers, with rough solder joints, exposed cables, and several half-eaten Orc mushrooms stuck in their cooling vents, were now broadcasting the war chief's roar to the entire hive.

"WAAAGH!!!!"

The sound exploded from every Orc communication terminal, squeezed out from every broken speaker of every Battle Fortress, and screamed from the implanted chip in every Orc's ear. It was not language, but psionic energy—the collective will of tens of millions of Orcs was ignited by that roar at the same moment, stirring up a chaotic undercurrent from the depths of the Warp.

The war chieftain "Iron Jaw" Grom rose from the rubble. He was a full size larger than a typical orc war chieftain. His left arm was a power gauntlet salvaged from an Imperial knight's armor; the welds were rough, but the roar of the hydraulic actuators created a deafening din. His jaw, the origin of his "Iron Jaw," had been replaced by a rusty armor plate, riveted with anti-slip teeth salvaged from an Imperial tank. His right eye was replaced by a rough piece of metal, its red light flickering in the darkness, each blink accompanied by a shrill whistle of a jamming servo motor.

It kicked aside the shrew blocking its way and strode to the edge of the ruins. On the outer edge of the hive, the Titan's shadow stretched for kilometers through the smoke and dust. Grom's mechanical eye narrowed its focus, then it laughed. Not a human laugh, but an orc's laugh—a split from its mouth to its ears, revealing fangs stained black with mushroom sap, and a low rumble like a quarry starting up.

"The tin man of the shrimp is here." Its voice was deep, not of fear, but of excitement—the kind of excitement that comes from holding back for too long, finally waiting for the prey to come into range, an excitement that makes your blood vessels feel like they're about to burst.

"Gather the boys. Pull up that cannon you took from the 'Bonecrusher.' Give them a good thrashing before they crush the outer defenses."

The orcs screamed and ran in all directions. On the main roads leading from the middle level of the hive to the highlands, the orcs began to gather.

Riflemen, machetes, laser cannons looted from the Imperial armory—everything that could fire was brought to the front lines. Hundreds of crudely constructed battle fortresses rolled out of the factory workshops in the mid-levels of the hive, their armor plates still bearing the Imperial armory's serial numbers, their tracks clinging to the remains of Imperial soldiers crushed the previous month. Techies frantically welded to the turrets, trying to attach more armor plates to the hull before the Titans reached firing range.

A tech-savvy character poked half its body out of the fortress's turret, its left eye protected by a welder's mask-made filter, and its right hand gripping a sizzling welding torch. It yelled something like "The cannon barrel is overheating and needs cooling" towards Grom.

Grom responded by punching the fortress's armor plating. The hydraulic push rod of the power gauntlet compressed violently, leaving a huge fist-shaped dent in the side of the vehicle, the welds cracked, and a newly installed armor plate clattered and rolled to the ground.

"WAAAGH!!! Fire!!! Fire!!! When those tin men of the shrimps get close, you'll be crushed into pancakes!!" It turned around, the red light in its right eye sweeping across the entire defensive line. "Those tin men, big and small, standing and walking, smash them all! They have tin, we have iron fists! They have cannons, we have even more cannons! If the shrimps can build one, we can steal one! If the shrimps can weld one, we can dismantle two!"

It points in the direction of the outer edge of the nest city.

"Do you see those shadows? Those are the most valuable pieces of junk! Smash them, peel off their metal and weld it onto our tanks! Take their cannons and install them on our fortresses! Tear out their machine spirits and stuff them into our brains! Let those little things fire the cannons for us!"

The greenskins poured out from every crack in the hive, every ruin, every sewer. Not out of fear, but out of madness—they smelled war, the smell of iron and blood, the smell of crushing, dismantling, and welding together the Empire’s most powerful war machine.

On the main thoroughfare of the middle level of the hive, a squad of orc lads trudged through piles of metal scrap, carrying a massive macrocannon salvaged from an Imperial naval vessel. The Imperial double-headed eagle insignia still clung to the barrel, now covered in greenskin graffiti—the crooked, low-gothic words: "DABIGGADABETTA." The orcs followed like ants, carrying ammunition boxes. Some tripped, only to be trampled by the orcs behind, shrieking a few times before falling silent.

Grom's roar continued.

"WAAAGH!!! Crush those tin men!!! Peel off their tin plates!!! Weld their cannons onto our tanks!!! Take their—"

The frequency of the binary hymn reached its peak at this moment. It did not come from the Fireseed, but seeped from the Titan's machine spirit, broadcasting throughout Amegidon through the welds of the armor plates, through the sealed interface of the cockpit, and through the eyes of the imperial statue cast in adamantite.

Two wills collided in mid-air. Not artillery fire, not lasers, but something older and more primal: order versus chaos, steel versus flesh and blood, the embers of an eleven-thousand-year-old empire versus the raging tide of a sixty-million-year-old green-skinned race.

Grom's roar was momentarily drowned out by the binary hymn. Its mechanical eye flickered violently, its left power gauntlet clenched tightly at its side, and the hydraulic push rods emitted an overload shriek.

Then it laughed. Not a laugh, but a roar that tore through the air, like an engine exploding, squeezed from the deepest part of its throat.

"WAAAGH!!!!"

It raised its power gauntlets and pointed them in the direction of Titan.

"WAAAGH!!!!"

Tens of thousands of greenskins raised their weapons at the same moment. Riflemen, machetes, laser cannons looted from the Imperial armory—everything that could make a sound roared.

"WAAAGH!!!!"

The heavy-duty elevator pulled it back to base, emerging from the clouds once more. The first aircraft carried six Predator-class destroyers, and the second carried four Warlord-class destroyers.

The Marauder-class Titan landed on the flanks of the Warhound-class. The weapon platforms were preheating during the separation process, and the heat dissipation grilles of the multi-barreled thermoelectric cannons glowed with a dark red aura.

One by one, the Warlord-class Titans descended from their belly compartments. Their massive, adamantite feet, weighing thousands of tons, trod on the scorched earth, causing the ground to tremble violently with each landing, and sending up bursts of grayish-yellow dust from the landing sites.

The "Unyielding Wrath" volcano cannon locked onto the makeshift anti-aircraft turret erected by the orcs on the outer edge of the hive the instant it stepped off the elevator. Within fractions of a second, the muzzle adjusted its angle and fired. A beam of incandescent white plasma melted the turret from its base—not shattered it, but melted it. Metal flowed like candle wax, and concrete vaporized in the heat.

Four general-class tanks were arranged in an arc behind the landing site, with their volcanic cannons pointing towards the Nest City.

Cohen stood in front of the command bunker sand table. The air defense array icon on the east side was painted green, and the location of the void shield generator on the west side was marked with a red cross.

"Proceed."

The Titan Legion began to march. The pulse frequency of the binary hymn reached its peak; it was no longer a heartbeat, no longer a war drum, but the roars of countless behemoths superimposed, resonated, and tore through the air at the same frequency.

The Warhound-class Titans moved the fastest, their plasma cannons firing as they advanced, the blazing white plasma bursts vaporizing the orc bunkers along the edge of the hive, along with the greenskins inside. The Vulcan's massive explosive cannons unleashed a dense barrage, tearing the orc infantry attempting a flank counterattack to shreds.

Grom's roar echoed from the middle of the hive, hoarse but overwhelming the artillery fire: "WAAAGH!!! The tin men are coming down again!!! Smash them all, big and small!!! Tear up the small ones, leave the big ones for last!!! Once that cannon is set up, I want to see those damn tin palaces kneeling before me!!!"

On the outer perimeter of Invernus's hive, the orcish fortifications began to crumble. Not from artillery fire, but from the sheer sound of footsteps. Green-skinned lads peeked out from their bunkers, watching the steel colossi advance, their shadows stretching for kilometers in the dust. One orc dropped his rifle and turned to run, only to be met by a lad smashing it down with the butt of his rifle before retreating himself. But on the main thoroughfare, even more orcs surged forward, roaring like Grom's bellow.

In the ruins of Invernus's hive, those who hadn't surrendered crawled out of the sewers, pipe cavities, and collapsed underground bunkers. Some leaned on iron pipes, some dragged their wounded legs, and some clutched laser guns salvaged from fallen comrades. They stood in the ruins, looking up at the steel colossi approaching from the horizon.

The binary chant continued, but it was no longer a "chantment"—it had become war itself. The pulse frequency was so fast that it was beyond the limits of human hearing, and every communication band was compressed to convey only one will: advance. It wasn't transmitted from the Fireseed, but seeped from the soul of every Titan, through the welds of the armor plates, through the sealed interfaces of the cockpit, through the eyes of the imperial statue cast in adamantite, broadcasting to the entirety of Amegadoton.

The earth trembled beneath the colossal feet. The sky was repeatedly torn apart by the blinding white light of the plasma blast cannons. The ruins of Invernus shook with a deafening roar. The Titan legion was advancing towards the hive city. The Emperor-class and the remaining four Warlord-class warships were still waiting in orbit, but their time was not far off.

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