Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 139 Invernusgrad (Part 2)

For the twenty-second day after the conference, the roar of heavy artillery never ceased.

The shockwave traveled along the alloy steel skeleton of the hive to the Legion's supply depot. By then, it had been abraded by kilometers of metal structures and shock-absorbing nodes into a continuous, muffled low-frequency tremor, like the dull thumping of a giant heart deep within the hive. Maggie barely felt the impact on the metal ground beneath her feet; only the occasional vibration of the brass gear pendant hanging from her chest gently tapped against her power armor breastplate—dark gray ceramic steel plates, the shoulder armor edges etched with the Garros gear and skull insignia, and the logistics department's identification stripes extending from the lower edge of the breastplate to her side ribs. She had just finished signing the shipment order for 50,000 rounds of earth-shattering cannon shells, her fingertips still stained with ink from the printing paper—this batch was to be sent to the Petrified Lizard self-propelled artillery cluster on the northern front, and three companies of Medusa siege guns were waiting to be replenished with high-explosive armor-piercing shells; the phosphated rust-resistant coating on the shells gleamed a cold, grayish-blue in the dim light.

"Sir, the serial numbers match. A total of 50,000 ground-shaking shells, 12,000 Medusa siege shells, and 170 spare gun barrels." The orderly's voice, muffled by the power armor's loudspeaker, echoed through the loading tracks behind him. Thousands of quadrupedal service machines were loading sealed ammunition boxes onto armored transport ships, their hydraulic joints humming in unison. Maggie glanced at the inventory figures on the data panel, her eye twitching. The Galos fleet had only brought three million shells upon landing, but since the start of the war, she had personally signed off on 9.7 million shells, and replaced over 6,200 gun barrels of various types.

The quartermaster beside her moved his lips, about to speak, but was silenced by Maggie's icy glare. When Maggie handed back the data panel, she avoided the quartermaster's eyes—some numbers are meant to be off. No one dared to speak of these things. Captain Phyllis had spoken to her privately once, not revealing everything, but the veterans of the Black Pearl understood—the captain was no ordinary person; those extra ammunition, spare parts, and rare metals weren't just statistical errors, but the will of Om Messiah, an unspeakable secret.

Another supply request came through the channel; it was from the Titan Legion's support servitor. Maggie answered, and a short binary pulse came from the other end: requesting ten tons of high-purity cobalt coolant, thirty sets of plasma cannon energy cores, and three hundred liters of Soul Calibration Oil. She frowned; this was the third supply request from the Titan squad today, more than they usually consumed in a week.

She had delivered supplies to the Titan base, and the captain had visited the various squads just three days prior. The technical priests privately murmured that the Titans' souls were as stable as cast-in-place adamantite pillars; even after 72 hours of continuous combat, they would be fully recovered the next day after cooling down, without even needing the usual soul-pacification ritual.

Maggie signed the supply list and handed it to the orderly beside her. The sergeant's line stretched from the warehouse entrance to the elevator, their crimson lenses appearing as a series of moving red dots in the dim corridor. Just as she was about to turn around, another request popped up on the channel—the northern infantry regiment was running out of rations, and the local corpse starch production line in Invernus was also running out of raw materials; the existing rations were only enough to last for seventy-two hours.

Maggie's temples throbbed. The war had been going on for so long, and the city had already been ravaged by the Orks, leaving little food reserves, which were now nearly depleted. Civilian rations had long since been reduced from two meals of concocted porridge a day to one, mixed with sawdust and ground algae—enough to keep an adult going for four hours. The Garros Legion's reserve rations, which were supposed to be absolutely untouchable, had been stripped of three layers. Today's request was the thirty-seventh to draw upon the legion's reserves, all of which had been approved by the captain. The captain's exact words were that they couldn't watch them fight the Orks on empty stomachs.

"Tell the logistics officer on the northern front that this batch of high-nutrient bars is only for the seriously wounded and the frontline assault troops. Ordinary soldiers will continue to receive their combined rations. Anyone who dares to embezzle them will be sent to a military court." Maggie tossed the signed delivery slip to the orderly, her Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

She herself only managed to eat half a nutrition bar yesterday; her stomach ached from the emptiness. Everyone had been enduring these past few days, without exception. The food reserves were still there, but they had to be used sparingly. Even with the captain's "miracle" replenishment, it didn't mean they could supply everything freely. There were billions of mouths to feed, and the captain was just one person, which was why the old woman on the Black Pearl cherished everything so much.

She fastened her power armor helmet and turned to walk towards the exit of the passage. Behind her, a team of service personnel were pushing a supply platform out from the depths of the warehouse, a platform piled high with neatly stacked medical and spare parts boxes, heading towards the medical station. She was only there to verify and sign off.

The fighting on the northern front never stopped because anyone left. When Maggie walked out of the warehouse, the Titans of the second squad were engaging in battle two kilometers away.

The Warrior-class "Unyielding Wrath" stood atop a hill amidst the ruins, its forty-meter-tall steel hull appearing and disappearing in the smoke. The volcanic cannon locked onto a charging ancient behemoth, the blue-white arcs of electricity condensing at the muzzle ionizing the surrounding air into tiny static sparks. The pilot's hands rested on the control sticks, the data cables at the back of his head connecting to the Titan's neural network array. The volcanic cannon unleashed a blazing white beam, precisely striking the center of the ancient behemoth's torso. The force field barrier overloaded and collapsed, the armor melted through, and the steel colossus collapsed to its knees amidst the ruins.

Before the beam of light had even dissipated, the "Unyielding Fury" volcano cannon had already begun to turn towards the next target. The angle, rhythm, and timing of the muzzle rotation formed a precise response to the "Watcher's" molten cannon, which was three hundred meters to the flank.

The Marauder-class gunner didn't even wait for any orders; the thermoplastic cannon barrel rotated in sync with the volcanic cannon's turn, locking onto a medium-sized ancient behemoth attempting to relocate behind the orc heavy armor cluster. The thermoplastic cannon fired, the blazing white beam melting through the ancient behemoth's right leg joint, the hydraulic lines ruptured, and the machine tilted.

Three Warhound-class battleships simultaneously emerged from the shadows of the ruins—"Shadow Blade," "Wind Chaser," and "Skullbreaker." Their timing—their entry into the ruins, their angle of attack, their rhythm of targeting—was seamless, as if the three steel predators shared a single combat nervous system. "Shadow Blade" and "Wind Chaser" attacked from the left and right flanks simultaneously, their plasma cannons' incandescent beams precisely striking the engine bay and cockpit sidewalls of the medium-sized ancient behemoth. "Skullbreaker" pressed forward from the front, its third plasma cannon shot striking the remaining structure of the leg joints. The ancient behemoth's force field barrier completely collapsed under the crossfire, its armor repeatedly pierced. The three Warhound-class battleships turned synchronously the instant they completed their kills, disappearing into the gaps in the ruins, leaving the orcish positions with two expanding fireballs and a kneeling steel wreckage.

The intelligent mechs pressed forward from the rear, their molten beams incinerating the Orcish Techies who tried to crawl out of the wreckage—the second squad had learned to leave the Orks no chance to repair themselves. The Warlord-class "Unyielding Wrath" didn't look back at its spoils. Its volcanic cannon was already aimed at a third target, new blue-white arcs of electricity re-forming at the muzzle. The "Watcher's" molten cannons simultaneously adjusted their firing parameters, and the three Warhound-class units once again lay dormant in the shadows of the ruins, awaiting their next opportunity to strike.

As Maggie crossed the edge of the northern front firefight, the Stormtroopers were clearing out the elite orcs who had infiltrated through the ruins. Several green-skinned corpses lay in the corner of a half-collapsed building, and the sound of blast guns came from deeper within, stopping in less than a minute.

The disinfectant in the medical station smelled pungent and acrid. Dr. Liz had just finished a surgery to remove necrotic tissue; the injured patient was being wheeled away by the valet. She leaned against the edge of the operating table, catching her breath, her hands still trembling slightly. Her white coat was stained with dark green stains, and the sealed bags discarded on the floor below were filled with the removed necrotic tissue, a layer of dark green putrefactive fluid seeping from the openings. Maggie's gaze swept over the instrument tray—three blood plasma bags were empty, and a small pile of hemostats stood there.

Maggie knew that in places beyond the captain's reach, war was fought in this most primitive way, pulling people back from the brink of death by removing everything, stitching it up, and replacing flesh with metal. She recalled the last time the captain visited the medical station; a soldier with all four limbs blown off was able to resume training the next day and return to his unit a few days later. Now, it didn't seem so miraculous. The captain was merely maintaining their lives, and most organs and limbs were replaced with prosthetics. Maggie understood that this was because the captain was needed in too many ways and couldn't attend to everyone. It was still the same now; as long as the organs were still viable, they could return to their units within weeks of receiving prosthetics—a miracle that other legions wouldn't even dare to dream of. Moreover, the prosthetics were of military-grade, high-precision quality; some even had healthy limbs removed for replacement. For now, things were fine.

The medical supply transport platform had already stopped at the entrance of the medical station, and service drones were unloading the goods one by one. Maggie glanced at the packaging labels—mechanical prosthetics, organ replacement modules, high-precision surgical components—verified the quantities, and signed the data board. She glanced at the rows of life support pods glowing with pale blue light next to her—inside lay critically wounded soldiers on the verge of death; as long as they still had brainwaves, they could be saved. Liz wiped the sweat from her brow, not even looking up: "Thirteen thousand critically wounded soldiers were brought down yesterday, all waiting to be implanted with prosthetics. Is the stock of prosthetics sufficient?" "Yes, ample reserves." Maggie knew in her heart that the medical supply list upon landing contained less than a thousand sets of prosthetics, and the warehouse inventory, after depletion, still had over a million sets left.

She didn't say anything more, turned around and walked out of the medical station. The materials from the industrial zone were still waiting for her to verify and sign for them.

The industrial workshops have been operating non-stop since the start of the defensive battle. Hundreds of industrial blocks are stacked vertically along the hive's skeleton, like an inverted mountain. Waste heat from the upper layers is piped to the forging workshops in the lower layers, and steam from the lower layers is pumped back to the heating system in the upper layers. Heat energy is repeatedly recovered in the vertical drop until it is completely exhausted before being discharged into the ventilation ducts of the middle hive.

The laser gun production line has long been restored, with the gun bodies coming off the assembly line and the adjacent workshop stamping ceramic steel plates for armor shells.

Deeper still, in the reinforced dome at the very bottom of the Nest City industrial zone, the production line of Leman Rustank has also begun to operate.

In just over a month, the engineers at Invernus miraculously pieced together the first assembly line from the ruins. The chassis welding station was restored, the turret assembly area was barely usable, and the engine test bench was still using manual calibration instead of automatic testing, but the tracks were already rolling off the production line, and one after another, they were driving out of the workshop to the heavily damaged armored regiments on the northern front that urgently needed reinforcements.

Maggie only visits the industrial zone occasionally, and each time she comes, she sees changes. Last time she was here, the turret assembly area was piled with semi-finished products, but this time there are finished products waiting for testing. Every day, transport ships descend from the unloading platform in the dome above, their cargo holds filled with shell casings and armor plating components, then fully loaded with finished weapons and ammunition boxes, and ascend into the air, transporting them along the magnetic levitation tunnels on the outer wall of the hive to the various defense lines. This transport continues day and night, each trip a breath of this industrial behemoth.

This time, she delivered high-precision drive shafts, replacement induction coils, and a batch of protein-based raw material blocks—concentrated protein matrix transferred from the Garros reserve—essential for maintaining the production line. These blocks were filled into standard ration packages at the factory's packaging section and then distributed to the front lines along with ceramic steel plates and shell casings. Each of these raw material blocks meant that frontline soldiers would have one more meal in the next ration cycle.

Maggie handed the data panel to the supervisor, and in a brief moment between the loading and unloading crew members carrying cargo boxes, glanced through the explosion-proof window at the final assembly line in the distance. The Lemanrus chassis was slowly moving along the tracks, the arc of the welding torch exploding into bursts of orange-red light in the dimly lit workshop, and the turret slowly descended from the overhead crane, docking with the chassis's seat ring. Another tank was taking shape. She tapped her palm with the edge of the data panel, waited for the supervisor to sign it, then took it and turned to leave.

Ulf crouched behind a viaduct pier in the open area of ​​the northern defensive line. He wore the Type 100 power armor issued by Garros; the gray-white terracotta breastplate bore several unrepaired bullet holes and claw marks, and the edges of the shoulder armor had been melted and solidified by high temperatures. The joint servo system emitted a faint hum in standby mode. He was now the commander; the previous commander had been mostly destroyed in the night battle three days ago, with only his head remaining in a life support pod at the medical station. Ulf had taken over command.

His regiment had just completed its reorganization before the battle, totaling nearly ten thousand men, a mix of Invernus locals and Garros soldiers. Weeks of continuous fighting had broken up most of the organization, and now fewer than three thousand remained. Only a few were issued power armor; most wore shell armor salvaged from the Invernus armory.

Command orders came in: the orcs had just broken through a section of the frontal defenses, and Ulf's regiment was to plug the gap under the cover of Titan fire.

He gave a brief order in the regimental channel, climbed over the cover, and ran towards the breach. Soldiers followed behind, some falling within hundreds of meters, but those behind stepped over the corpses and continued running. Orcs poured out from the gaps in the concrete rubble at the breach, their rifle bullets ricocheting wildly between the steel frames. Ulf charged into the orc horde, laser guns and bomb guns firing alternately at close range, while soldiers followed behind him, clearing the breach section by section.

They were pinned down in the middle of the breach—the orcs were also pouring troops in that direction, several times their number. Corpses piled up among the ruins. A report came through the communication channel: flank fire support points deployed, Marauder-class units to suppress the area behind the breach in thirty seconds. Ulf shouted "Down!" into the channel. Barrage skimmed the tops of the ruins, exploding behind the orc positions, cutting off the charge. He rolled out of cover and charged back in; everyone opened fire simultaneously, clearing the orcs in the middle of the breach section by section. The defensive line was re-established. No one counted the exact casualties; the tactical communications only reported ammunition consumption and the number of units still standing. Accurate casualty statistics were the job of post-battle documentation.

He squeezed a tube of nutritional paste into his mouth, stood up, and walked back to the defensive line. The Marauder-class artillery fire was still suppressing the attack behind the breach, and the orcs did not charge forward for the time being.

The Knight Mech Squadron on the eastern hills launched a simultaneous counterattack. A Paladin-type chainsword cleaved through the armor of two Orc battle fortresses during the counter-charge. The pilot rammed his mech into the side of a third battle fortress, using the shoulder-mounted explosive turrets to brace against the cockpit and fire continuously until the fortress exploded from the inside. When the Knight Squadron withdrew, three mechs did not return.

As night fell, Maggie returned to her temporary quarters at the command post. She had just removed her power armor helmet and placed it on the edge of her bed when an emergency alarm suddenly pierced the base's silence—the highest-level infiltration alert. Chaos erupted over the channel: the shouts of soldiers guarding the command post, the roar of explosives, and the barrage of green-skinned soldiers mingled together: "The north ventilation duct is in!"

"They're blue-green and yellow-green skinned! They're carrying force field generators! The outer defenses are about to be breached!"

Maggie grabbed the explosive pistol from the bedside table and quickly pulled her power armor helmet back up. She ran towards the core of the command post through the emergency exit. The alloy walls along the way were splattered with dark green blood and charred bullet holes. Three guards lay dead at a corner, their throats ripped open, green machetes still embedded in one of their breastplates. She recognized one of them as a young man from the logistics department who had asked her for food rations the day before. When she pushed open the heavy blast door of the command post, a faint smell, like burnt protein, filled the air, and all the gunfire ceased.

The command post was a scene of utter chaos: the tactical sand table was overturned, the alloy conference table bore over a dozen deep slashes, and more than thirty green-skinned corpses lay scattered on the ground. Their skin was a bluish-gray and dark yellow, with deliberately applied blue stripes that were blurred at the edges. The camouflage coating had shattered in the impact, revealing the rough outer shell of the force field generators beneath. These were infiltration units specially trained by the orcs, adept at drilling into ventilation ducts, and their force field generators could withstand direct hits from several explosive rounds.

But the green-skinned corpse had no external injuries. There were neither bullet holes nor knife wounds.

The captain stood by the observation window, his back to the door. Maggie noticed that his hand, hanging at his side, trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Captain?" Maggie called out.

"The infiltration force has been cleared out." Kara walked in from outside, her helmet removed, her hair disheveled and plastered to her forehead. The captain didn't speak, only nodded slightly, his gaze returning to the continuous bastions of gunfire on the northern front outside the window.

Maggie crouched down, righted the overturned sand table, and picked up the scattered troop markers, putting them back in their places. As she stood up, she glanced towards the observation window—there was a shallow dent along the lower edge of the window frame, as if something had pinched it. She didn't look again and continued placing the last troop marker back on the sand table. The explosive devices strapped to those yellow-green skinny men were enough to collapse the three-story structure of the command post; if it had been a few seconds later, the chain of command would have broken.

The cleanup was quickly completed, and order was restored to the command post. Late that night, a battle report from the direction of Archeron appeared on the communications panel: the Salamanders had stabilized their lines on the outskirts of the industrial zone; the 3rd and 6th Companies of the Blood Angels had airdropped into the front lines; and the 6th Assault Company had eliminated three Orc firing positions. Ultramarines' reconnaissance squads had completed target marking on the flanks, providing precise coordinates for subsequent strikes. Dante had arrived in Archeron and assumed command of the three chapters.

The encrypted channel on the communication panel then lit up, a communication request from the Blood Angels flagship. Dante's holographic image was projected, his face as cold as a statue, his voice steady: "Sage Cohen Severus, Acheron's defenses have been stabilized. Within half a month, I will mobilize all available forces to counter-push from the flanks. At that time, the pressure on Infurnus will be relieved. You are not fighting alone; you are buying time for the entire subcontinent. Saint Gilles is with you."