Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 138 Invernusgrad (Part 2)

By the sixth week of the war, the sky over Invernus had turned iron gray. It was a persistent dark curtain that had accumulated in the heavens after weeks of smoke and dust.

The heavy artillery roared day and night, and the petrified lizard's cannon barrels were replaced round after round. The empty shells of ammunition boxes piled up into small mountains behind the gun emplacements, and service drones shuttled between the shell craters, dragging boxes of high-explosive shells up from the rear and empty shells down.

The second line of defense on the northern front was breached at 3:00 AM last night. An elite squad of orcs infiltrated through gaps in the eastern firing positions—their movements were silent, and the blue stripes painted on their bodies gleamed eerily in the darkness, the insignia of the Death Skeleton Clan, signifying that they were "lucky" in the eyes of Gao Ge and Mao Ge. Explosives blasted open three blast walls, and a tidal wave of green-skinned soldiers poured in through the breaches, wiping out two entire Invernus Allied Infantry Regiments—more than 20,000 men—from the position.

Those weren't ordinary orcs. The veterans of the Stormstrike Force noticed something amiss while counting the corpses—the infiltrators were a size larger than ordinary greenskins, with thicker armor and superior weaponry; each one looked like a demon who had survived countless battles. The blue of the death skulls seemed alive in the darkness, light seeping through the gaps in their stripes.

The panoramic view of the northern front unfolded in the morning light. Warhound-class Titans darted swiftly through the ruins, their plasma cannons' blazing white beams carving scorched trenches through the hordes of orc infantry, while the barrage from the Vulcan's massive explosive cannons tore apart the green-skinned warriors attempting to flank them. Marauder-class Titans established firing strongholds on the rear highlands, each shot from their molten cannons blasting molten holes in the armor of the ancient giants. The roar of the General-class volcanic cannons echoed from further afield, each boom accompanied by the collapse of an ancient giant.

The Titan Legion's massive steel shadows loomed in and out of view amidst the smoke of battle, their footsteps causing rubble to tumble down from the ruins.

The morning of the fifteenth day after the meeting.

Cohen stood before the observation window of the cathedral command post. The outline of the Central Nest was faintly visible through the smoke of battle, while in the distance, the flashes of artillery fire from the northern front formed intermittent pulses of light in the darkness.

He turned and walked towards the sand table. Cole's finger had just marked the latest situation update on the star map. The stalemate in Tempestora continued, both sides waiting for the other to make the first move, and the defensive line held firm. Although no large-scale offensive had broken out in Hades' direction, the orcs' diversionary attacks never ceased, and the defenders gritted their teeth and held on through attrition, not yet on the verge of collapse. On the war zone star map, the dark red markings in Acheron's direction had become so thick they were almost black—the most dangerous flashpoint in the entire war zone.

"Admiral Parol's latest report," Cole said in a low voice. "The outer defenses of Acheron have completely collapsed. The orcs have breached the industrial zone in the middle of the hive."

He paused for a moment, then traced an arc along the edge of the star map with his finger.

"Army Group Acheron initially consisted of more than forty corps, with a total strength of nearly ten million. Since the start of the war, more than a dozen corps have been wiped out, and the remaining troops are mostly incomplete. Wounded soldiers fill every underground tunnel, and civilians, even children, are being sent into the trenches. Of the city of three hundred billion people, probably less than a few billion are still standing."

Cohen remained silent. His self-illumination shifted from Acheron, settling on the area north of Invernus that was far denser than Acheron's.

On the denser, darker red markings, the entire orcish force that could be mobilized across the subcontinent, numbering in the hundreds of millions, was being placed upon Invernus.

The Star Talk Room is located on the lower level of the command center, converted from the cathedral's basement. The dark gold runes of the hexagram protective array pulsate slowly within the cabin's lining, each line filtering out the psionic noise surging from the depths of the warp.

Fifteen Star Speakers sat on their respective psychic focusing pedestals, wearing dark gray robes and black ribbons that covered their burned eye sockets.

They were survivors rescued from the collapsed stasis field station on the seventy-second level of the bottom nest—the last fifteen members of the Invernus Star Language Choir. After review by the Inquisition, nine formal soul-bound individuals passed the test, and six apprentices participated in the operation in an auxiliary capacity under temporary authorization for "Special Psionic Needs of the War Zone." Inquisition agents stood at the door of the Star Language Room, their gray robes motionless in the circulating wind, their optical lenses lingering on the face of each apprentice in turn—they were supervising, but not interfering.

Eleanor, the lead singer, sat on the central pedestal, her grey robes billowing against the back of the chair in the circulating air. She was the highest-ranking Zeta among the nine officially certified Star Speakers. Her lips moved slightly, and the light from her third eye flickered through the gaps in the metal disc on her forehead. Behind her, fourteen Star Speakers operated in sync, their psionic pulses amplified, purified, and directed within the hexagram's geometry. Six apprentices were responsible for signal monitoring and data recording, not directly operating the focusing pedestal.

The communications officer's voice came through the communications panel: "Governor, the Star Language Room has completed decoding. Star Language command from the Terra Military Affairs Supreme Command."

"read."

"Supreme Command Strategic Assessment: The Acheron direction is a key pivot point in the theater of operations, and Commander Dante has been authorized to oversee all operations in this area. The operational objective in the Invernus direction is primarily to tie down enemy forces to the maximum extent possible, without setting a hard deadline for holding out. Subsequent Astral Army reinforcements will be prioritized for deployment in the decisive direction. All units should rely on existing defenses to continuously wear down the enemy and buy time for the overall situation in the theater of operations."

The command post fell silent.

Cole whispered, "The Department of Military Affairs means—"

"I know," Cohen said calmly. "Acheron cannot be lost, but Invernus can be sacrificed."

News of the dire situation at the front was relayed back to the command post layer by layer.

Colonel Joachim's tank regiment organized a counterattack on the third line. A Lemanrus emerged from a ruined bunker, its gun barrel shattering the left leg joint of a Golem, sending the steel behemoth crashing to its knees. Another tank flanked the burning remains of a battle fortress, firing at close range; the shell penetrated through a weld on the Golem's back armor, its internal ammunition exploding and ripping off its upper body. But the Orcs' counterattack was equally fierce—a massive shell slammed into the Third Company's position, directly hitting a tank, its turret blasted dozens of meters away, the wreckage burning on the scorched earth.

The casualty figures jumped to over a million in Cole's report, a large portion of whom were infantrymen of the Invernus Allied Forces, while the Garros Legion suffered over 100,000 casualties.

In the hilly eastern flank, the Knight Mech Squadron was locked in fierce combat with Orc heavy armor units. Ranger-type heavy bombardments swept through the ruins, Paladin-type chainswords cleaved through the armor of a battle fortress, and Priest-type missile pods blasted Orc infantry attempting to flank into pieces. A Ranger was struck by Gujuji's fist, its left arm weapon platform deformed, and the pilot roared into the channel, advancing instead of retreating, pressing the molten steel gun on its right arm against Gujuji's abdomen and pulling the trigger.

Lars Company of the Phoenix Combat Group held the breach for half the night. Warriors clad in CMC-300 power armor crouched behind the collapsed building, spent shell casings piling up at their feet. One soldier peeked out from behind cover, firing a series of shots that felled three charging orcs. The fourth shot hit his shoulder armor—the terracotta shell stopped the penetration—but the impact knocked him to the ground. A comrade beside him dragged him back to cover by the back of his neck armor, felt a pulse on the side of his neck—still beating—and continued firing.

Elite infantry regiments belonging to the Garros Planetary Defense Force fought house-to-house among the second-line ruins. The force field of the Void Shield kept the orcish orbital fire outside the hive's outer shell, but couldn't stop the greenskins surging from the ground. A volley of laser gun fire wove a web of fire in the narrow passages, and the serrated teeth of chainswords splattered green fluid with each clash. A platoon of soldiers blocked the ventilation duct exit, using molten lava guns to incinerate any orc squads attempting to infiltrate, pipes and all, into charred remains.

Kara's Stormtroopers hadn't had a full rest for seventy-two consecutive hours. Their last three engagements had occurred twice at night and once in the darkest hour before dawn. Ammunition consumption was three times the normal rate, and the power armor's servo motors hummed softly under constant high load. Some closed their eyes briefly between commands—not to sleep, but a fleeting moment of unfocused awareness, their eyelids drooping. Their infiltration targets were all aligned with the command post's direction.

Cohen listened to the numbers, expressionless. His gaze remained fixed on the dark red markers on the star map representing the enemy's main force—a battle line stretching from the northern front of Invernus all the way to Acheron, forming a line that traversed the subcontinent. The orcs had poured the most elite forces of the main continent into Acheron, while concentrating hundreds of millions of troops from the subcontinent on Invernus. They were striking with two fists simultaneously. The first fist, from the Imperial reinforcements, struck Acheron.

Invernus has no reinforcements. At least not now.

Infurnus is using his own flesh and blood to hold back hundreds of millions of orc troops on the northern front. If Infurnus falls, those troops will surge like a tide towards Haldis, Helsard, and Tempestora, each lair bearing the same fate Infurnus is enduring. No matter how many reinforcements Acheron sends, they cannot fill the gap across the entire subcontinent.

Cohen turned and walked towards the psionic isolation chamber in the corner of the command post. There sat the Zeta-class psionic mentor candidate with prophetic abilities from Isa Velengaros's psionic support team, eyes closed, a fine layer of sweat beading on her forehead. Her lips moved, squeezing out fragmented words from the fragments of her vision: "—East side—Ruins zone—"

They came from underground pipes—not ordinary ones—blue—they glow—”

Cohen listened for a few seconds, then said to the staff officer beside him, "Mark the eastern ruins area. Notify Kara, her Stormtroopers are to go there."

The staff officer quickly marked the location on the sand table, and the communications officer immediately issued the instructions.

Meanwhile, the orc fleet in orbit around Invernus was regrouping. Vera and Marcus, leading the remaining ships of the Garros fleet, patrolled the outer perimeter, repeatedly attacking the orc fleet's flanks with light spears and torpedoes, forcing them to split their forces to deal with the attack.

But the orcs outnumbered the Imperial fleet several times over, and every attack came at a cost. The Cobra III's thrusters were hit during last night's raid, forcing it out of combat; the Truth's port-side void shield overloaded twice, each restart accompanied by violent tremors. All they could do was stall—prevent the orc fleet from unleashing its full firepower on the ground. Nothing more.

The fighting on the northern front has turned into a strangulation war within the hive capital.

Kara's Stormstrike Team, a ten-man squad, was pre-positioned at a designated location in the eastern ruins. Heavy bomb guns were mounted behind cover, and all the plasma pistol charging packs had been replaced. A combat psionic team of one or two Kappa-class combat psionicists stood ready thirty meters behind them, using a psionic barrier to envelop the entire position in a nearly invisible transparent film.

Kara crouched in the corner of a half-collapsed industrial building, the command center's instructions coming through the comms: "Isa predicts they'll come from the east. Your men engage first, the psionic team provides cover from the rear. Leave the weird kids to them, you just clear out the ones in front."

"receive."

Moments later, an elite orc squad emerged from the shadows of the ruins. They moved faster and quieter than ordinary greenskins, their blue stripes glowing unnaturally in the power armor helmet displays. But the Stormstrike Force was already waiting there.

"Fire."

The barrage of heavy explosives riddled the two orcs at the front with holes in the first volley. The orcs behind them didn't stop, continuing their charge over the corpses of their comrades.

A steel giant, its entire body strapped with explosive tubes, its yellow paint gleaming in the darkness—the color of the Evil Moon Clan, signifying "more powerful explosions"—swooped out from the flank, heading straight for the center of the Storm Assault Team's defensive line. Kara dodged to the side.

He drew his molten pistol from his waist, pressed it against the steel giant's head, and pulled the trigger. A beam of molten white heat vaporized the skull, and the body crashed to the ground, but the shockwave still knocked two commandos to the ground—power armor had shielded them from the direct cuts of the shrapnel.

Behind them, a figure shorter than an ordinary orc crouched behind a pile of rubble, green lightning crackling in the air from its eye sockets. A series of low, inhuman syllables rolled from the throat of the Strange Boy—the Greenskins' only psionic unit, acting as a sponge for the mass psionic field—as a thick, bucket-like green psionic lightning bolt slashed towards the Stormstrike Force's lines.

The lightning bolt struck an invisible wall before hitting its target. The combat psionicist's barrier rippled with a dark blue shimmer at the point of impact, deflecting and scattering the psionic lightning, creating several charred craters in the ground. The barrier flickered violently but did not collapse.

The Strange Boy's attention was drawn to the invisible barrier—it needed to continuously output psionic energy to sustain its attack, while the combat psionicist was using the barrier to wear it down. Its psionic reserves were rapidly depleting, veins bulged on its forehead, and green arcs of electricity began to crackle across its own arms. It was a sign of losing control. In that instant, Kara pulled the trigger. The blue arcs of electricity from the plasma pistol exploded inside its skull, and the Strange Boy's body stiffened for a moment before collapsing like a rag doll onto the rubble.

The defense line has been stabilized.

Cohen conscripted the remaining private armies of the nobles of Invernus. Of those nobles who had fled to the Underground before the war and had only recently been brought up by the elevator, less than one percent still retained private armies. Cohen's orders were concise: all armed guards were to be placed under the command of the Allied Forces within twenty-four hours and incorporated into the second-line defense. Anyone who delayed would have their mansion turned into an ammunition depot; anyone who disobeyed would have their bunker's life support system "malfunction." There was no third option.

The Inverness factory was operating day and night, converting ammunition and armor plates. The elderly, women, and even teenagers crammed onto the production lines, their rough hands assembling explosive magazines and soldering circuit boards. Their movements went from clumsy to skilled in just a few days. The factory had no windows; the hum of the ventilation ducts masked the distant roar of artillery fire. Some workers collapsed while standing, were carried to a corner to drink some water, and then returned to their workstations. No one complained.

The young men who were replaced—those who had toiled in factories, mines, and transport lines—took up laser guns and bomb guns and stood on the defensive line. They hadn't received systematic combat training, but they learned to align themselves in a straight line, to lie prone during artillery fire, and to pull the trigger and hold it steady when the green-skinned soldiers charged at them, all from the hoarse shouts of the veterans. They wore only a thin suit of armor and carried an old gun. But the way they stood there was no different from any other Asgardian soldier.

The civilians of Invernus had been betrayed once before the war by Governor Erna von Kirska. Those who stood on the highest points chose to surrender, while those struggling to survive on the ground—they did not surrender. The orcs' blade spared no one. In the days that followed, they witnessed firsthand the consequences of surrender. So this time, no one retreated.

The gap was torn open again and again, and they filled it in again and again.

The communications officer's voice came through the comms panel again: "Governor, theater command laser communication. The Salamanders Chapter's advance team has completed its orbital penetration. Commander Tu-Shan, leading three companies and mortal auxiliary troops, has established a defensive line around the Acheron Industrial Zone. The three companies, totaling less than four hundred men, have stabilized the core node on the eastern flank of the industrial zone, stretching for tens of kilometers. The mortal auxiliary troops have filled the flanks, blocking the orcs' flanking maneuvers."

Salamanders. Cohen knew the name. Among the Emperor's Death Angels, they weren't the most outspoken, but they were the only ones known for "protecting the civilians." Tu Shan—a chapter commander who had only been in office for three years—was the first to respond in the darkest hour.

There was no cheering in the command post. The officers of the Garros Legion stared silently at the dark green sea stretching north of Invernus on the star map.

Reinforcements have begun to arrive. But it is Acheron who is coming. Not Invernus.