Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 126 Judgment of Ashes (2)

The Orcs occupied Invernus for too short a time. Their focus remained on the Upper Nest and the top of the tower—the governor's palace, the armory, and the heart of the orbital defenses. The middle and lower levels were swept by the Orcs, who killed and looted, then withdrew the majority, leaving patrols to maintain basic control.

Invernus has a population of over ten billion. Most are still alive. They live crammed into factory basements, residential building refuge floors,

In the mezzanine of the utility tunnel, at the corner of the ventilation shaft, they heard the cannon fire of the Imperial landing, they heard the Emperor's hymns. But they dared not come out. They didn't know if the Empire had truly returned, or if it was just another brief bombing.

The retired sergeant's name was Ulf.

He hid for countless days in the pipework of the factory's basement. A burst pipe, and condensation seeping from the cracks in the walls was his only source of water. He heard artillery fire—far away, like muffled thunder. He heard binary broadcasts; he couldn't understand the pulses, but he recognized the rhythm. It was Imperial technology. When he served in the Invernus Steel Legion, the Mechanicus's technical priests came to maintain the weapons, and that was the sound coming from their terminals.

He dared not go out.

The last time something from the Empire fell from the sky was through orbital bombardment. He huddled deep within the confines of the tunnel, listening to the entire building collapse overhead, to the armor plates being torn apart, the steel frames twisting, and the concrete crumbling. He thought he would die here, in the very hive he had guarded for most of his life, after the governor had surrendered. He still remembered the governor's words on the radio: "To preserve the billions of lives of Invernus, I have decided to make a peaceful handover with the Orcs."

Peaceful handover. Ulf clenched his fists in the pipe cavity, his nails digging into his palms. That word disgusted him more than any bomb.

Then he heard the bells.

It wasn't a mechanical sound. It was the cathedral bells, the bells he'd heard since childhood. He recognized the rhythm: three slow, two fast, then three slow again. The signal from Section C of the Inverness Church. "Safe, come out." His father had taught him. His betrothed father had taught his father.

He crawled out of the pipe tunnel, his legs weak. Not from injury, but because it took him three tries to stand up. The tunnel was dark; the emergency lights were long gone. He touched the hand of someone next to him—it was icy cold and motionless.

He didn't know who it was. He took the last half of the compressed rations out of his pocket, stuffed it into the pocket of the other hand, and continued crawling forward.

He climbed out of the ventilation shaft.

Grayish-yellow smoke billowed in from all directions, filling the air with a burnt and putrid stench. He didn't recognize the street anymore. He had lived there for thirty years, knowing the location of every shop and which way the entrance to every building faced. Now, all that remained were peeling armor plates, twisted steel frames, crumbling concrete, and half-buried pipes.

He saw the gray-white power armor.

The man stood atop the ruins, helmet tucked under his arm, his face stained with soot and dried blood. Ulf couldn't identify which unit's paint scheme it was—not the Iron Legion's dark gray, nor the Astragalus or the Apostolic Guard. But he recognized the insignia: a gear and skull. The Mechanicus.

"Invernus?"

"Yes."

"Can you walk?"

Ulf looked down at his leg. His old injury in his left leg was aching, but he could still manage. "I can."

"Come on."

The man didn't ask his name, his rank, or how many days he'd been hiding. He turned, strode off, and walked towards the cathedral. Ulf followed. Behind them, people were still climbing out of the ventilation shaft—one, two, three. Someone helped the person behind them, someone tripped over loose stones, and someone nearby reached out to help them up. No one spoke.

The cathedral's outer armor plating had been stripped away in large sections by the rail bombardment, revealing the inner terracotta and steel framework. The rose window was shattered, shards of stained glass littering the ground. But the dome remained, the bell tower remained, and the imperial statue atop the dome remained. The alabaster statue was blackened by smoke and dust, but its wings were still outstretched, its sword tip still pointing to the sky.

Ulf passed through the nave. The archways of the side aisles were still there, but several pillars were cracked. Someone was distributing guns—not Garros's weapons, but old guns from the Steel Legion. The gun barrels still bore the etched numbers of the Steel Legion of Invernus. He saw a man receive a laser gun, run his fingers over the grip, and mutter something under his breath. Ulf didn't hear the words, but he recognized the tone of his voice.

It was his turn.

He took the gun. The barrel was cold. He turned it over and saw the etched serial number on the side of the bolt. That was his serial number. Decades ago, when he received that gun, he had anti-slip grooves engraved on the grip. Those grooves were still there, polished to a shine by his sweaty hands.

He stood there, his hands trembling.

It's not fear. It's disbelief.

"Have you fought in battles?" A Garros sergeant walked over.

Ulf looked up. His voice, strained from his throat, was hoarse and unlike his own: "I've fought."

"Follow me."

He wasn't assigned to Garros's combat unit. His mission was patrolling—in cleared neighborhoods, leading a group of people like himself who had just crawled out of the ruins, inspecting every cleared building, spraying markings at the entrances, and bringing out survivors hiding deep inside.

There were twelve men patrolling with him. The youngest was under twenty, wearing factory overalls, gripping a laser gun with white knuckles. Ulf helped him lock the magazine and push the charging pack into place.

"Follow me."

The news spread from the cathedral to other churches. The organization of the Church of Inverness was more complete than anyone had anticipated. The parish priest was still alive—he was hiding in the crypt of another church and was being held during Mass when the search party found him. He was unharmed, just much thinner. Several deacons also emerged from their hiding places, some carrying reliquary chests, some carrying Mass books, and some wearing only tattered vestments.

Valeria summoned them to the cathedral's annex. The dome of the annex was still there, but the armor plates were cracked in several places, and grayish-yellow smoke drifted slowly from the gaps. She stood beneath the blackened imperial icon, before whom were seven people crawling out of the ruins. The priest's robes were covered in ash, and a section of his left sleeve was torn off. One deacon's mass book was half-soaked in blood, but he still clung to it.

"The Empire has returned." Valeria's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like nails driven into terracotta. "Your parishes need you. Your believers need to hear the Emperor's Gospel. Gather all the men you can."

The pastor did not hesitate. He grouped the surviving priests by neighborhood, appointed temporary leaders, and sent them back to their respective parishes. Bells rang out from the cathedral's bell tower—one after another, from one church to another. A signal from within the Church of Inverness. Safe, come out. The bells echoed between the steel buildings, along the armored walls, to the basements and shelters of every street.

Ulf was spray-painting markings on a half-collapsed street when he heard the bells. He stopped spraying and looked up. The bells were coming from the direction of the cathedral, passing through the ruins, through the smoke and dust, through the twisted steel frames, and reaching his ears. Three slow chimes, two fast chimes, then three slow chimes again. He had been listening to them for decades.

He lowered his head and continued spraying.

The first group to emerge from their hiding place numbered only a few dozen. Then a few hundred. Then a little over a thousand. Then tens of thousands.

Valeria stood on the steps in front of the cathedral, watching the people emerge from the gaps in the armor plates and the steel frame. Some cried, some laughed, and some collapsed to the ground, unable to move. The battle nuns were scattered among the crowd, moving silently.

Two centuries of warfare had taught her that heretics were most likely to take advantage of desperate crowds. At this moment, all she saw was fear, exhaustion, and the bewilderment of those who had survived a catastrophe. The ordinary people didn't even dare look directly at their armor—their gaze would briefly touch the rose emblem before immediately looking away.

As the tolling of the bells traveled further, more and more survivors began to move voluntarily towards Imperial-controlled territory. The numbers at containment sites were revised upwards every few hours. Billions of civilians were still alive, crawling out from every crevice of the steel jungle.

Cohen drew thousands of men from the Garros Legion to form a temporary resettlement team, responsible for receiving, registering, and allocating temporary accommodations. Dozens of partially collapsed industrial buildings cleared from the ruins were converted into temporary shelters—the outer armor plates were peeled off, and the pipelines were torn, but the steel frame structure remained intact.

The state religion played an irreplaceable role in this process. The pastor, along with his fellow priests, traveled between the shelters, praying for the survivors and registering their names. This was not merely administrative registration, but a confirmation of faith—letting everyone who crawled out of the ruins know that the Emperor's servants were still there, that the Emperor was still there. The priests unearthed Mass books and icons from the rubble, setting up makeshift prayer tables at each shelter. Some knelt, some simply stood, and some, too weak to even stand, lay on the metal floor, listening to the prayers and weeping.

Among the first group of civilians to emerge from the cathedral, some proactively asked: "Can I help? Can I get a gun?"

Ulf stood under the shelter's shed, watching the people lining up to receive their guns. He recognized several faces—colleagues from the factory, neighbors from the next block, and a few others whose names he couldn't recall but whom he had met before. They were all wearing various clothes salvaged from the rubble; some were still in their pajamas, and some were barefoot.

A woman in her forties stood before him. Her hair was disheveled, her face was dusty, and her lips were chapped. She received a laser gun and a breastplate. She turned around, saw Ulf, paused for a moment, then nodded.

Ulf nodded.

He led his squad on patrol. The second exchange of fire came sooner than the first. In a passageway partially blocked by detached armor plates, they heard footsteps coming from the depths of the tunnel—footsteps that weren't human. Heavy, dragging, with a metallic scraping sound every few steps. Ulf raised his hand. The twelve men behind him crouched down simultaneously.

He held up three fingers.

At the corner of the tunnel, the first green-skinned creature peeked out. Ulf pulled the trigger. A laser beam exploded in the dimly lit passage, leaving a blue-white streak that struck the green-skinned creature in the face. It didn't fall. Two more began charging forward. The boy next to him fired, the first shot missing, the second hitting the second green-skinned creature in the shoulder.

The sound of bomb guns exploded from behind. A patrol of the Garros Legion heard the commotion and rushed over. Two bombs were fired almost simultaneously, tearing the three greenskins to shreds.

Ulf crouched behind the wall panel of the utility tunnel, panting heavily. His hands were still trembling. The boy's hands were trembling too, even more violently.

"It's alright," Ulf said in a low voice. "It's always like this the first time."

The boy didn't answer. But his hand steadied a little.

When Valeria reached the containment site, Ulf was squatting in a corner drinking water. She stopped in front of him.

"first?"

Ulf looked up. He saw the rose emblem, but didn't look directly at her face. His gaze fell on her shoulder armor.

"No." His voice was hoarse. "The first time was decades ago. But it's always the same after each time."

Valeria didn't speak. She stood there, her chainsword hanging at her waist, her hands clasped in front of her lower abdomen. Two centuries, countless battlefields. She had seen far too many soldiers like this. Their hands trembled when they pulled the trigger, but the muzzle never wavered.

She only stood there for a few seconds.

Ulf stood up. He hung the water bottle back on his waist and checked the safety on his gun.

"Let's go," he said to the twelve people behind him.

He didn't turn around.

Valeria watched his figure disappear into the passageway. She didn't applaud, she didn't offer comfort, she just stood there.

When the news reached them, even more survivors stepped forward. These included retired soldiers from the Steel Legion, scattered active-duty soldiers, and the factory's security captain. They received laser guns and armor from the containment center, forming temporary militia companies under the unified command of the Garros Legion sergeants.

The pastors became the most effective recruitment network—they kept records of which parishes had sent troops and which neighborhoods still had survivors. Survivors would come to the pastors themselves, who would then lead them to the recruitment stations. There was no need for search parties to go door-to-door. Faith itself was the best form of mobilization.

Valeria noticed a detail: among those who received their weapons, some didn't leave immediately. Instead, they turned and made a brief gesture in the direction of the internment point—the old-fashioned salute of the Invernus Iron Legion, right fist to chest, fingertips pressing against the heart. It was the unextinguished flame of a disbanded unit. It had nothing to do with heresy.

The first batch of soldiers who received their weapons quickly began training the second. Veterans mentored new recruits, and those with combat experience guided those without. Within a single day, tens of thousands received their weapons. The numbers continued to rise. Among the billions of civilians, far more were capable of carrying a gun. However, the Garros Legion had only so many officers, and the training grounds were only so large. Although a large quantity of weapons were unearthed from local warehouses, distribution still took time.

Cohen appointed several experienced officers from the Garros Legion to oversee the organization and training of the militia. Ulf was appointed commander of the 1st Militia Company. Valeria stood under the shelter of the internment camp, watching the bald man accept the appointment letter, his fingers clenching the edge of the paper. He turned and saluted her, his right fist pressed against his chest, fingertips pressing on his heart.

Valeria nodded slightly.

These militiamen were also responsible for burning all the green-skinned corpses to kill any remaining live spores. Flamethrowers had been issued. Cole was at command post, working with his staff to plan the consolidation of the notorious controlled area. The Garros Legion sergeants submitted daily reports on the militia's patrols—how many streets had been cleared, how many buildings cleared, how many people rescued from the rubble. The casualty figures were also there. But the casualty figures were declining.

The priests followed the patrol. They carried no guns, only icons and books of mass. They walked in the middle of the procession, stopping at each cleared intersection to recite a prayer for the dead and sprinkle holy water on the survivors. This was not a necessity for military action. It was a ritual essential for the city's restoration of order. Only under the emperor's watchful eye could the steel ruins be transformed back into a city.

As night fell, the lights of the shelter illuminated the ruins. Militia patrols moved through the streets, checking the entrance markers of every building, identifying the exits of the utility tunnels amidst the flames of burning green corpses—that was their city. They knew every pipe, every passageway intimately.

Ulf led his company on their final patrol. The food station at the internment camp was still lit, and several Garros Legion soldiers squatted on metal crates, silently smoking. The boy walked at the very back of the column, still clutching his gun, his knuckles no longer white.

Valeria stood on the steps in front of the cathedral, looking at the lights. Behind her, in the cathedral's main hall, the area on the sand table where the Nest had been recaptured continued to stretch out. A battle nun walked up behind her.

"Sister, when shall we begin our operation? Our mission is to eradicate heretics and aliens."

Valeria did not turn around. Her gaze was fixed on the direction of the tower's spire—where the governor's palace stood, and the surrendered traitor von Kirska.

Those who side with the aliens are guilty of the same crime as the aliens.

The darkness of the Deepholm is chaos, despair, and a breeding ground for corruption. But the traitors at the top are the true heretics. The orcs are merely enemies. The surrendered governors are the blasphemers.

"Soon," Valeria said. "Wait."

She turned and walked into the cathedral, through the side aisle, and back into the room that had been temporarily converted into a prayer room. She knelt before the imperial icon and closed her eyes.

Behind me, the bells were still ringing.

Three slow strokes, two fast strokes, then three slow strokes again.

Without Cohen's emergence, it's likely that none of the billions of people in Invernus would have survived; this would have been the backdrop of the universe.