Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 140 Sharpening the Knife

Battle reports became more frequent, yet shorter.

The situation map in Acheron's direction is slowly turning from red to blue; the battle line has stabilized, at least it's no longer retreating. But every battle report ends with the same sentence—"Defense line is solid, no breakthrough achieved. Continuing attrition."

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Invernus's assessment was shorter: "Continued stalemate. High casualty rate."

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The assessment report only described the current situation, not the underlying intentions. The General Staff's operational model contained a hidden bottom line: reserves would not be deployed until the Orcs had fully launched their offensive. The northern defensive line was a line of attrition—compressed, torn apart, filled, and compressed again; each cycle wore down the Orks' morale, gradually disintegrating their most elite assault groups in the sustained assault. Invernus was trading battle losses for the Orks' morale.

The battle reports did not reflect the true situation of the defending forces. The Garros Legion's organization had been broken up and reorganized three times, and the casualties of the Invernus Allied Forces were so high that the staff officers no longer reported according to the original organization, but instead based on the "total number of combat-ready personnel." Those numbers were decreasing with each update. The width of the defense zone on the northern front remained unchanged, but the number of people that could fit in was decreasing.

Cohen knew what those numbers meant. Among the "casualties" listed in the battle report, those on the third floor were still alive—

They were simply frozen in the life support pods, and what awaited them was being sent back to the battlefield, which seemed even more cruel.

But recovery takes time—prosthetic alignment, wound healing, and reorganization. The medical stations' repair speed can't keep up with the rate of attrition at the front lines; this is a time lag. Cohen is waiting for the orcs' charge to slow down.

The state cathedral in Invernus had been converted into a temporary internment camp, housing disorganized stragglers, withdrawn militia, and civilians with nowhere else to go. The shepherd counted the number of interns every six hours, and the numbers continued to rise. There was insufficient food, beds, and medical supplies. The Garros Legion's logistics system was still operational, but rations had been reduced to corpse starch and synthetic protein; factory shifts had been shortened to three hours, and workers often collapsed beside the assembly lines.

Cohen had received a report from Mu Zheng that there were daily deaths at the asylum due to hunger and exhaustion. He read the report, put it back on the table, and moved on to the next one.

At the same time every day, he would walk through the corridor and into the life support pods deep beneath the cathedral. He would simply pass by the pale blue lights, pause, and then leave. Each time, it would take less than fifteen minutes.

As he passed the triage station, a wounded soldier was being carried off. Both legs were missing below the knees, blood bags hanging from the stretcher poles. Blood covered most of his face, but he recognized the eyes. Now he lay here again. Last time he was brought down, his legs had returned; this time, they were prosthetic. He was lucky enough; the brutality of the war meant most people never even had a chance to reach a medical station.

Liz stood behind the sorting counter. At the end of the corridor, the standby lights of the life support pods glowed a pale blue. The pods were full.

The newly arrived critically wounded soldiers lined up on stretchers. Those deemed "able to wait" were moved into life support pods, where the life support system took over their remaining vitality, freezing their consciousness on the verge of death. Those deemed "unable to wait" were pushed to the isolation room at the end of the corridor, where the sergeant recorded their names and numbers, sealed them up, and sent them to the incinerator.

Deeper within the battle reports, an intelligence analysis report circulated among the think tank members of the Blood Angels flagship. Sourced as a secondary assessment from the chapter's think tank, the wording was restrained, but the connections between the figures and the equipment list were clear enough. The Garros Legion's equipment list was dissected item by item: CMC-100 fully enclosed power armor, standard issue across the entire army; elite units were equipped with the CMC-300, featuring ceramic-steel composite armor, an internal reactor, neural interface control, and performance parameters approaching the Astartes power armor standard. Under the fleet entry was a note: five Odysseus-class combat transport ships. The Odysseus-class was the model finalized and commissioned during the Great Expedition; complete blueprints were no longer archived in the Imperial shipyards.

The files of the Fireseed were also unearthed. The casting ark, two kilometers in size, integrated a Titan hangar, a heavy-duty elevator platform, an ammunition production line, and a weapons repair workshop. The casting chambers inside the ark were still operational, and the core modules of the production line remained intact.

The assessment report concludes with a cautiously worded appendix: "The technical characteristics of the aforementioned equipment closely match the records of the Foundry World during the Great Expedition. Governor Cohen Severus of Garros appears to have inherited the technological legacy of a complete Foundry World."

The report circulated in the warband's encrypted channels. The warband leaders reviewed all the data, exchanged a few words, and then went about their respective zone affairs. No one pressed for details, no one tried to delve deeper. In this dark millennium, questioning the technological origins of a fifth-tier sage possessing the Titan Legion and the Forging Ark was the most unwise course of action. Only one thing was worth confirming: whether the equipment was usable. Yes.

Tushan, the leader of the Salamander Legion, crouched behind a section of collapsed blast wall. His skin gleamed with the dark sheen characteristic of the Nocturne Starborn in the starlight, and his eyes were the signature dark red of the Salamander gene seed. The cloak, crafted from three-hundred-year-old dragon scales, was frayed and torn in the smoke, and the crisscrossing scars of honor on his face spoke of battles buried by time. A holographic tactical board lay before him as he verified the coordinates of the firing positions on the eastern flank of the industrial zone. Two signals simultaneously transmitted real-time firing corrections from the frontline observation teams and encrypted reports from the Blood Angel flagship. He remained silent for a moment after reading the assessment report.

"Invernus's lines held for more than three weeks. His armored assault teams survived for an average of less than fifteen minutes. Less than a third of them were withdrawn."

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Dante's voice, coming through the encrypted channel, possessed a calmness honed through over a thousand years of commanding experience.

"The casualty rate of the defenders at Invernus remains high, and the rate of advance on the front line is negative. The casualty exchange ratio is approximately one to eight."

Tushan extended his gloved fingers and drew an arc on the tactics board: "The Orcs' one-to-eight exchange ratio can't defeat Invernus. Their armored assault teams can be redeployed to the battlefield within half an hour—Invernus fills the gaps with new recruits, trains them for three days, fills them up, and then fills them up again. Just look at the replenishment cycle of the Lemanrus squadron attached to Invernus to see how fast those units can be re-equipped."

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"It's about building world-class resupply capabilities," Dante said. "Either there's a complete industrial hub operating locally, or there are so many stocks that they don't care about consumption."

"Invernus's industrial base is indeed sufficient—pre-war records show that its armored production lines were among the top in terms of production capacity during the local defense forces' re-equipment cycle. Although the Techies were dismantling quickly, the Greenskins only occupied the area for a little over a week, which was too short a window to dismantle all the precision manufacturing units. This is one of the reasons why the local factories were able to recover so quickly."

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Calgar's voice cut in from the encrypted channel, his usual Macuragian directness and conciseness: "The intelligence report has added a point. In the technical priest's maintenance logs, many critical precision components—sensor arrays, fire control processors, transmission bearings—are in better condition than expected, suggesting that Punolis's legacy extends beyond what's shown on the surface."

Dante's response was brief: "Luck is also part of the battlefield. Whatever the reason, Invernus's equipment production capacity recovered faster than the theater command's models predicted."

Tushan nodded. He only had three years of experience as a chapter commander. Faced with the war ignited by the Bonecrushers, he knew whose judgment was more reliable. His finger paused above the tactics board: "So I was asking if there was anything else in the hangar of the One Spark? Something that could move."

The question about Tushan was deliberately ignored, and Dante opened another document. It was a psionic assessment report submitted by a member of the think tank, attached to the last page of the chapter's internal bulletin, marked as "Secondary Reference." The report was short and the language was restrained, but Dante read it twice.

"Think tank observations of the Invernus region show that the WAAAGH! force field decay pattern became abnormal after Grom's death. Normal dissipation should be uniform and all-encompassing. Actual observations show a concentrated inward contraction, as if something is being reclaimed. After the reclamation, the intensity of the impact on Invernus did not decrease, but instead continued to increase."

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"They didn't draw any conclusions," Dante said, "but the facts themselves speak for themselves. Grom's death didn't stop the attack; it just shifted its source."

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Calga’s voice cut in again: “What is your think tank’s assessment?”

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Dante was silent for a few seconds. "Invernus shouldn't have held on. It was taken back. Grom was just an executor, and the failure to execute it was itself seen as hijacking. The think tank didn't state this conclusion directly, but the report contained the following statement: 'The psychic perturbation pattern of this galaxy is inconsistent with any known single-WAAAGH! source, showing multiple interference traces.'"

Tushan didn't speak. His knuckles tapped the edge of the tactical board. His dark red eyes stared at the holographic projection, as if weighing something—a focus unique to the Salamander Chapter Commander, silent, yet never hesitant.

Dante continued flipping through the data panel, pulling up another report. The Silver Robe Order's mark was in the header, with Sister Valeria's signature code at the end. "The truth behind the fall of Invernus is not entirely due to the governor's cowardice—the Silver Robe Order's investigation confirms that von Kirska had completed the Tzeentch's corruption mark before the surrender. The Greenskins were not the first occupiers of Invernus."

"What's the first one?" Tu Shan asked.

"The mark," Dante said. "When von Kirska surrendered the hive, the Tzeentch's ritual was already complete. The Greenskins' occupation of Invernus was merely execution; the true completion was the sacrifice itself. But Invernus was recaptured—the landing of the Garros Legion dragged it off the altar. After Grom's death, the Orc gods saw their prey gone, and those below saw the ritual interrupted. They were all adding to the stakes."

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Calgarh paused briefly. "So Invernus is now suffering double wrath: from the green-skinned god and from the one who was outmaneuvered."

"Invernus's fate was sealed when it fell," Dante said. "But when it was recaptured, the chains broke. The think tank can sense that structure, that trace, wrapped around the psionic structure above Invernus. It was there from the moment the surrender was signed. Now both sides of the break are pulling, and Invernus is in the middle."

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Tushan's knuckles stopped at the edge of the tactics board. "The intensity of the Greenskins' attack that Invernus is currently experiencing is because they are trying to put the broken chains back together."

"Not just the green-skinned ones," Dante said. "They were crazy enough, but now they can get even crazier."

After the communication was cut off, there was a moment of silence on the encrypted channel. The three chapter commanders returned to their respective command posts—Dante continued to oversee the overall situation in the theater, Calgar coordinated the troop deployment for "Operation Emperor," and Tushan retreated to the Salamander defense line. The communication logs showed that three technical assessment reports on Garros were marked as "read" at the same time.

The fact that Invernus could hold on was beyond the capabilities of all the theater command's assessment models. The models had predicted a collapse by the third week, and had been revised three times, each time concluding that the defenses would crumble in the next offensive, but none of those predictions came true.

This was not a miracle. It was a scheme. Invernus's defensive line was deliberately and layer by layer compressed—not to be breached, but to drag the main force of the Greenskins from the open wasteland into the ruins, forcing them to exhaust their last burst of power in the most unfavorable terrain. The Greenskins' offensive was gradually diminishing, the magnitude of which was small, but the trend was already evident.

Invernus, the cathedral command post.

Cohen stood before the sand table. The markings along the northern front were denser than a week ago, each update compressing the usable depth of the defensive line. He glanced at the latest loss report for the armored assault team—three companies had been deployed, less than one had returned. Half of the withdrawn vehicles were damaged; gun barrels had been replaced, and the weld marks on the sides of the hulls were fresh. The intervals between ammunition requisitions from the depot were lengthening. Technicians were piecing together repairs using parts salvaged from wrecked vehicles.

He flipped to the next item on the data panel: the training time for replenishment personnel in the Leman Russ squadron had been compressed from three weeks to three days. New recruits were pulled directly from the internment camps and factory assembly lines, trained by veterans, and completed simulated operations behind the defensive lines. They were then donned power armor and added to missing vehicle crews. The training subjects were reduced to only three actions: "loading, firing, and abandoning the vehicle." Cohen knew these men wouldn't last long. They would be carried off the field in a few hours, repaired while alive, sent back, and carried off again. But this was only a cycle for a few, and a cycle that could break at any moment. In this intensity of war, most people's first fall was their last. There was no such thing as a cycle.

None of that matters. Just hold Invernus and Garros, that's all.

He was waiting for the right moment. Behind the northern front, the last remaining fully-equipped troops—thirty full-strength infantry regiments, two armored regiments, and a cavalry squadron—had assembled, their ammunition loaded to the highest standards. They weren't deployed to the lines; they were waiting. When the Orks exhausted their last burst of firepower and the lines briefly broke apart, these reserves would pour out, filling every gap and crushing the remnants of the Orcish ranks. Infurnus itself was a blade, and the Orcs were sharpening it with their own blade.

The battle rhythm at Invernus had become fixed at an extreme frequency: the orcs launched a large-scale assault every four to six hours, interspersed with smaller infiltrations. The defenders' reaction time had been reduced from several hours to tens of minutes, and soldiers no longer took turns resting. Some had stood on the front lines for days without actually lying down. Non-combat casualties due to fatigue were rising daily, approaching half of the combat casualties.

Cohen knew these numbers because every report passed through his terminal. Every document told him the same thing: resources, manpower, redundancy—all were dwindling. His hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he flipped through the documents, then he turned the page and continued processing.

Cohen had squeezed every spare moment into his day, mostly closing his eyes to relieve fatigue between documents. His sleep was fragmented, and as his hunger subsided, he simply moved on to the next document.

Zi Guang moved away from the sand table and looked out the window. The "Unyielding Wrath" volcano cannons fired a round every two thousand minutes, blasting a breach in the orcs' offensive axis. But the intervals between each firing were lengthening. The pilot's neural connection endurance was nearing its limit, the Titan's machine spirit automatically reduced its frequency to protect itself from overload, and the density of fire support was irreversibly decreasing.

The technical priest's report stated: "The neural connectivity system load has been consistently in the critical range. Driver fatigue levels continue to accumulate. Rotation is recommended." However, there are currently no drivers available for rotation.

Titans can be rebuilt; the real bottleneck lies with the pilots. Cohen needs a force capable of filling the gaps in Titan firepower.

The Nest of Invernus, a chapel behind the cathedral's command post. Beneath the statues of the Emperor and Saint Gilles.

Ten people stood before Cohen. They were the highest-ranking data artisans who had survived from various squadrons, and their subordinates were still being gathered in batches, totaling about three hundred. The Casterland mechs had suffered heavy losses, but the data artisans had suffered relatively fewer casualties, and the survivors were gradually returning to their units.

Cohen didn't exchange pleasantries. "The Casterland mechs cannot be replenished. The Starfortress type intelligent mechs, a legacy of the Pronoris Casting World, total 1,500 units. You 300 people, each of you will control five units."

The Starfortress-type intelligent mech is a steel shell over four meters tall, equipped with an atomic deflection shield, heavy explosive cannons, and powered gauntlets. It's a model that the Empire's current Forgeworld can no longer produce, and its combat performance rivals that of the Astartes' Dreadnoughts.

"Your core tasks remain unchanged—programming, calibration, and wartime switching of operational protocols. The Starfortress's fire control network has been integrated into the Titan command link. Operational modes are dynamically switched based on the Titan's firing rhythm and the intensity of the Orcish assault."

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He glanced at the data craftsman standing at the front. "Any problems?"

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"no."

Fifteen hundred Starfortress mechs have been deployed deep within the Invernus hive. This was a project Cohen completed amidst his busy schedule, intended as one of his trump cards. At this moment, they stand silently in standby mode, their optical lenses dimmed. Each mech's data slot is pre-loaded with a complete library of operational protocols.

Deployment orders have been issued. Before the next orc offensive, 1,500 mechs will be deployed to the most heavily defended area on the northern front. Data craftsmen are conducting final calibration checks.

Cohen returned to the command post and stood before the sand table. The markings on the northern front were denser than the previous week, and the orcish front was steadily thickening. His duty log showed that he had been working for far too long. But he continued.

A staff officer peeked halfway in through the doorway and placed a data panel on the table beside it: "Governor, loss report for the Third Defense Sector on the Northern Front." Then he turned and left. Cohen picked up the data panel, scanned it, and put it back on the table. In his command circle, this was the unspoken rule: transmit information in the shortest possible way.

A message popped up on the communication panel, originating from Acheron. It was highly encrypted, and the issuing code was the Blood Angels flagship. The message was brief: The Blood Angels have launched a surprise attack to decapitate the orc war leader on the main continent.

This was used to boost Invernus's morale.

S