Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 145 On Invernus's Pulse

The subspace storm dissipated faster than anyone expected.

It wasn't a gradual decrease, but a sudden ebb. After weeks of counter-offensive, the psionic background noise over Invernus dropped several times over one morning. The edge of the warp turbulence was narrowing, and the chaotic barrier that had isolated the Armageddon war zone from the outside world for months was peeling away layer by layer from the direction of Invernus.

Eleanor was the first to sense the change. She sat on the psionic focusing pedestal in the Fireseed's Star Module, her breathing deep and slow. The arc-shaped focusing array inside the module surrounded her, the pedestal embedded in the center of the module, each resonant crystal embedded in an adamantite interface. She sat there all night.

The persistent subspace background noise was a thick, grayish-green layer pressing down on her psychic perception. But at some point in the early morning, that layer cracked, and the entire frequency was simultaneously stripped from her psychic perception, like a door that had been locked for too long finally sliding silently open at the end of a corridor. The feeling was clearer than she had imagined, so clear that it made her tremble all over. Her legs were still shaking as she stood up from her pedestal, and she said to the on-duty chanter, "The passage is open."

Inside the Black Pearl's interstellar communications bay, Hera Voss received the same thing five minutes later. Although her psychic perception wasn't as sharp as Eleanor's, she received something more tangible: the first wave of standard Imperial Navy broadcasts, complete with the identification code, clear formation calls, and even several plaintext instructions for battle readiness. Not fragments, but a complete data packet.

She sat in front of the receiver array, her fingertips still resting on the edge of the interface, and her voice was half a octave softer than usual when she spoke.

"We've been heard."

The open passageway was filled with the standard broadcasts of the Imperial Navy's Astronomical Array. The first Astral Army transport ships arrived in Invernus's low Earth orbit on the fourth day—they had been waiting on the edge of the storm for weeks, entering in sequence as the storm subsided. Then came the second, the third. Armageddon Theater Command began coordinating operations before the storm had completely cleared; hundreds of transport ships stretched across Invernus's low Earth orbit, their cargo holds crammed with ammunition, medical supplies, and reinforcements. The Empire never lacked manpower, nor was it ever stingy with sacrifices.

The orc gods withdrew their light. After Grom's death, the spaceship torn apart from the inside by whirlwind torpedoes, and the clearing out of over twenty outposts along the northern front of Invernus, they had seen enough. Further betting was pointless; the greenskin tsunami of Amegidon had subsided, leaving only remnants. On other battlefields in the galaxy, even greater woes awaited their attention!

Tzeentch's gaze also receded into the distance. The traces of corruption that Sister Valeria had been relentlessly tracking in the lower and middle chambers gradually ceased responding after the last batch of anomalous signals were located and isolated. The readings of the psychic detectors went from active to silent within a day; the faint light that had once seeped from the depths of the cracks gradually cooled, cracked, and peeled off the walls of the chambers. In the interrogation rooms, the suspects' reactions to questioning shifted from resistance to blankness, as if some force had been drained from them to keep them silent. Meanwhile, in the daily screenings at the containment facility, those individuals with psychic anomalies—those who didn't respond to standard questioning and whose mental barrier tests showed abnormal waveforms—who had previously appeared every few days, ceased to appear after the last signs disappeared.

Demon Judge Horst stood behind the window on the second floor of the containment facility, watching the shortening queue outside, and said to his psionic assistant behind him, "He's gone."

"thorough?"

"At least for now." Horst's voice was flat. "Once Invernus becomes interesting again, He will return. But until then, the screening at the containment facility continues; don't let your guard down."

The rotation of troops began in full force in the second week after the storm subsided. Astral Army reinforcements landed from orbit, first entering the outer defense zone of the northern front. The Garros Legion's defense zone shrank daily, retreating from the front lines to the transition zone between Middle and Upper Nests. Invernus Allied forces shuttled between internment and medical stations, transferring batches of soldiers withdrawn from the front to the rear. The wounded accumulated by the Garros Legion during the counterattack were gradually rehabilitated, with over 30% receiving prosthetic implants. The Legion was ordered to rest and withdraw from all fronts, to be fully taken over by the Imperial Astral Army.

The three Space Marine chapters were the first to withdraw after the defensive lines were secured, leaving only a small liaison group behind. The Space Marine transport ships departed Invernus orbit three days after the Astronautical reinforcements arrived, without a welcoming ceremony or farewell. But their journey was not empty.

Cohen was waiting for them in the audience hall of the Fireseed.

The Audience Hall, located aft of the Fireseed's bridge, is one of the most central ceremonial spaces on the entire Ark. A dome hangs high, its adamantine frame outlining layers of gears in the cold light. The sacred words of the Mechanicus are etched in binary code onto the curved surfaces of every beam. Suspended in the center of the dome is a colossal statue of the Ohm Messiah, a composite of gears and a skull forged from adamantine. One half is a precisely meshed transmission system, the other the outline of a human skull, its hollow eye sockets containing eternally burning psionic cores that silently emit a constant dark golden glow. The statue's arms hang down, each mechanical fingertip holding a rotating star map ring.

Below the icon was a long, dark metal table, its surface cast from a single piece of refined gold, inlaid with data interfaces and psionic resonance runes. No documents were placed on the table; at each of the four corners stood a fixed bronze incense burner, from which the smoke of holy oil swirled and rose in the cool light, carrying the distinctive aroma of Mechanicus rituals—a mixture of incense and the lingering warmth of coolant.

Cohen stood at the head of the long table, his hands resting on the back of the chair, without sitting down. Embedded in the bulkhead behind him was a massive bronze relief depicting a panoramic view of the Proxima Centauri forging world at its zenith, with countless furnaces and forging towers stretching against a starry backdrop, the gear and skull emblem occupying the very center of the image. Directly in front of him, in the shrine behind his chair, the statue of Om Messiah silently surveyed the space with the meshing of its gears.

When the three battle group commanders arrived, the airtight door slid shut behind them.

Dante walked at the front. The armor of the Blood Angel gleamed a dark crimson in the cold light, his helmet tucked under his arm. He passed the long table without looking at anyone, his gaze lingering for a moment on the gear pattern of the dome before settling on Cohen. His face, weathered by sixteen hundred years, was expressionless, but his eyes held something—not scrutiny, but confirmation. He stopped closest to the statue of Ohm Messiah, his posture like a statue worn smooth by time yet never bent.

Calga followed closely behind, his steps steady, and stood on the other side of the long table. He was younger than Dante, but that youth was relative—his aura wasn't built on seniority, but honed by countless battlefield decisions and survivals. When he stood there, the entire audience hall seemed to shift its weight slightly in his direction. His arms were crossed, his posture composed, his gaze calmly sweeping over Cohen, without rushing to speak. The tactics of the Ultramarines never involve speaking first.

Tushan entered last. He paused at the entrance, his dark red pupils sweeping across the layout of the audience hall—a natural reaction of the salamander gene seed under low light conditions, its focus slowly adjusting with the changing light. Then he took a few steps forward, not approaching the long table, but standing there waiting. He had only been in office for three years, the least senior of the three. But at this moment, he stood there not because of seniority, but because of something else: the embodiment of the salamander's compassion, sense of responsibility, and self-sacrifice. His silence differed from the previous two: Dante's silence was a calm forged in a thousand years of war, Calgar's silence was a strategist assessing the chessboard, Tushan's silence was more like waiting for a moment when he needed to speak, a moment worthy of his voice.

Cohen spoke up: "Invernus's counterattack is over. The Astral Army is taking over the defenses, and the Garros Legion and the Invernus Allied Forces will be withdrawing soon. But before we withdraw, there is one thing that needs to be confirmed by everyone here."

He paused for a moment to make sure all three of them were looking at him.

"The Arsenal of the Fireseed contains a batch of supplies from the Great Crusade. These are complete sets of equipment ordered by the Punorius Forge for a Legion before its destruction, which drifted in the warp with the Ark for nearly ten thousand years and were never used. The database records indicate that there were dozens of units in total, but only thirty have been fully confirmed so far—each one a standard Defiant Dreadnought."

A two-second silence fell over the audience hall. Dante's gaze lingered on Cohen's face, a reaction born of sixteen hundred years of experience—he had seen too many people exchange gifts for political capital, but he had never seen anyone consider thirty units of the Contemptible Fearless as a "gift." Calga's arms remained crossed, his center of gravity subtly shifting as he recalculated. Tushan's dark red pupils contracted slightly before returning to normal.

Cohen didn't wait for their response, turned and walked towards the passageway on the side of the audience hall: "Follow me."

The deep armory was located near the keel of the Ark, accessible via at least three airtight doors and two corridors, each several hundred meters long. Data cables and cooling pipes were embedded in the bulkheads along the corridors, emitting a continuous low-frequency hum as one walked. Cohen led the way, followed by the three chapter commanders.

As the third airtight door slid open, cool white lights gradually illuminated the entire space from the array of maintenance lights in the dome. The lights didn't come on all at once, but rather lit up sequentially from the entrance towards the depths, like a pulse of light being awakened and unfolding in the darkness.

This is a massive weapons bay, nearly a hundred meters in length and width. Thirty Defiant Dreadnoughts stand silently on two parallel pedestals, each maintaining a standard maintenance distance. They are all standard models—ten each of long-range twin weapon turrets, ten thermoplastic, ten plasma, and ten laser turrets, suspended beside the twin-arm pedestals. The Dreadnoughts' melee weapons, including the built-in Stormblaster and atomic shield generator, are fused to the sides of the chest armor. The factory paint has faded to a dark gray under the erosion of thousands of years in subspace, and the shoulder and chest armor surfaces are covered with fine sedimentary patterns, like a layer of old copper rust that has been smoothed by time. Some of the Dreadnoughts still retain the markings left from the factory calibration at their weapon interfaces—the baseline scales drawn by technicians with etching pens, still faintly discernible under the cover of sediment.

Dante approached the nearest Dreadnought, but instead of touching it, he stood in front of it and looked up at its frontal armor.

The casting serial number on the breastplate was still clearly legible, and the lead seal on the side was intact—no one had ever opened its core compartment. He stood for a moment, then looked away, glancing at the next machine. He didn't speak, but his fingers twitched slightly at his side, closing half an angle. For a warrior who had lived for sixteen centuries, that was the full extent of his reaction.

Calga stopped midway through the queue and bent down to examine the encapsulation plaque on a Dreadnought's base. The wax seal was intact, embossed with the gear emblem of the Pronoris Casting World and the delivery date, and the lead seal ring along the edge of the plaque showed no signs of tampering. He straightened up, looked away, and didn't touch it. He was already assessing the maintenance schedules, spare parts availability, and deployment plans for these Dreadnoughts—he just didn't say it aloud.

Tushan turned back from the end of the line and stood again before the Dauntless. He stopped before its ankle armor plate, where a tiny manufacturing flaw—a pore left from the casting process, covered by a thin layer of dark purple deposits over time—was visible. His fingertip paused at the edge of the flaw, then withdrew, without wiping the dust from his fingertip. He withdrew his hand slowly, as if to let the touch linger on his fingertip for a moment longer.

Cohen stood on the adamantite maintenance platform at the entrance of the armory and said, "These were made by the Pronoris Forge World for a legion before its destruction. These thirty are the most intact of all. The database system is still being organized, and the possibility of repairing the other wreckage is currently uncertain. However, the maintenance facilities on the Fireseed can perform a full maintenance."

Dante was the first to turn around: "Are you sure you want to hand these Dauntless Ones over to the Warband?"

"Yes, ten per chapter," Cohen said. "That's all the Defiant Dreadnoughts the Fireseed can currently fully unlock."

Calga turned around, arms crossed. "This is a generous gift. What does Garros want?"

Cohen said, "Gallos needs friends. The war will not end, this universe has never been kind to anyone, and you all know better than anyone that the closer you get to the heart of the Empire, the higher the cost of trust becomes. Gallos is on the edge of the Misty Sector, without a foothold. The technological reserves of the Fireseed need witnesses, and the legacy of Punorius needs people to use them. These courageous acts are not for trading aid, but for you to remember the name Gallos."

Tushan was the first of the three to approach the Dreadnought. He didn't respond to Cohen's words, but simply stopped again before the Dreadnought equipped with the molten weapon. He reached out, placed his palm on his breastplate, and closed his eyes briefly, as if confirming something. Then he withdrew his hand and turned to Cohen. His voice didn't have the usual metallic quality of Astartes; it was more like a weary man making a promise—gentle, deep, carrying the lingering warmth of the Nocturne furnace: "The Salamanders will not forget."

Cohen continued, "The Spark's maintenance team can provide complete maintenance and technical support for these Dreadnoughts. Reproducing some parts is also possible. It's just a matter of time, not a technical one."

As the meeting concluded, the three chapter commanders emerged from the armory. Dante led the way, his steps steady. Calgar followed closely behind. Tushan brought up the rear, pausing briefly—just for a moment—as he passed Cohen. His crimson pupils lingered on Cohen's face for an almost imperceptible instant before moving away. Tushan said nothing more; he simply resumed his pace, catching up with the two dark figures ahead. The three Space Marine transport ships at the end of the corridor each had their own course and destination, but they had all received a gift from Garros at the same point. As for why there were exactly ten of each, and exactly ten of each with different weapon architectures, the implications were self-evident.

Cohen stood at the armory entrance for a while longer. Thirty Defiant Dreadnoughts stood silently in the cold light, the dark purple sediment patterns on their armor gleaming dimly under the lamplight. Every mark was a camouflage he had personally implanted, precise, deliberate, and untraceable. He glanced at the last Dreadnought—the one Tushan had stood on. A tiny remnant of paint remained on the weapon interface, a dark red arc extending a few millimeters inward from the edge. It was a detail he had deliberately left, to make them appear to belong to a past buried by time. Cohen didn't reach out to touch it. After a moment, he turned and left the armory. The airtight door slid shut behind him.

Loading began the morning after the three battle groups confirmed receipt.

Upon receiving the loading order, the armory supervisor of the Fireseed opened the side armory hatch. The Blood Angels' service boat was already waiting there. Its deep red paint scheme appeared serene under the starlight; the hull was unmarked, and only one accompanying personnel, dressed in a deep red technical priest's robe, stepped out of the hatch. He didn't speak, but went directly to the nearest Defiant Dreadnought equipped with twin laser cannons, crouched down, placed his palm against the armor plating of the base, and remained there with his eyes closed for nearly a minute. During this time, he didn't connect any equipment or read any data; he simply confirmed one thing in the most ancient way—the Dreadnought's machine spirit was still there.

Then he stood up, gestured to the servitors behind him, and began loading.

The Ultramarines' transport ship arrived six hours later. Its paint scheme was darker, almost invisible against the dark gray armor plating.

Leading the team was a technical sergeant clad in terracotta armor, the U-shaped markings on his shoulder armor clearly visible under the spotlight. He stood before the Dreadnought equipped with a plasma cannon, directly activating his data terminal and establishing a direct connection with the Dreadnought's interface. Load data, machine spirit status, armor fatigue, and fire control system logs were all read within minutes. He then retracted his terminal and told those behind him, "Load this one first; the machine spirit data needs to be synchronized separately." His data terminal remained connected throughout the loading process, until the Dreadnought was completely secured in its cargo bay slot. Only then did he disconnect the interface, glance at the last line of confirmation data on the terminal screen, and move on to the next unit.

The Salamander's transport ship arrived last. The side ventilation grilles still gleamed with the residual heat from its orbital journey. Leading the group was a weapons technician in dark combat attire; he carried neither the robes of a technical priest nor a data terminal. His method was to walk past each of the ten Dreadnoughts, stopping for a few seconds before each, then moving on to the next. Reaching the Dreadnought equipped with thermomelt weapons, he paused, looked at it for a moment, and reached out to touch its ankle armor plate—not to read data, just to touch. He stood there for about ten seconds, then released his hand, saying nothing to those behind him, and stood at the end of the queue, waiting for loading to complete.

After the three transport ships completed loading at the Fireseed's armory, they each turned in different directions. The crimson one veered north and disappeared into the starlight. The dark gray one maintained its course without any unnecessary movements. The last ship to depart emitted a faint, lingering glow from its side as it completed its turn, then went out. As the final record was completed, the Fireseed's data link automatically severed its connection with the equipment. Those codes were locked into the deep archive system and never appeared again on any to-do list.

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