Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 156 The Spark of Serflis

Subspace. Purple chaos churned outside the porthole armor plates, the low-frequency hum of the Geller force field penetrating the adamantite skeleton like a continuous heartbeat. The Sword-class frigate "Lookout" traversed the chaotic sea alone, following the fixed patrol route of the Serflis line.

Captain Edwin Harker's communications panel suddenly beeped urgently.

"Emergency Star Message: The trade ship 'Honored One,' a Galaxy-class armed cargo ship, has been ambushed in the Serflis route. An unidentified vessel has boarded the ship from the flank. Firefight is underway inside the ship."

The decoded text emerged line by line. Hark stared at the text and silently read it twice. A Chaos Raider, operating alone, not a fleet. This meant that the target was a lone wolf hunting along this route, not a planned large-scale raid. Its target was a Galaxy-class cargo ship fully loaded with adamantite powder and trade goods, a vessel it could plunder for a long time.

Hack turned to the navigator: "Full speed ahead. Maneuver along the last coordinates of the Sacred Heart."

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The Sword-class frigate's thruster power surged, and the ship began to accelerate through the turbulence of warp space. Warp travel takes time. Until it arrived, the Holy Hymn would have to rely on itself.

Meanwhile, the battle inside the Sacred Heart had been going on for four days.

The remaining Christian troops retreated to cargo hold number three in the middle of the ship. Over the next four days, the defenses gradually tightened, but never collapsed.

The Chaos Commander initially deployed only a few hundred elite troops to board the ship. He thought a merchant ship couldn't offer much resistance. He figured he could breach the hull, storm the bridge, and the ship, its crew, and cargo would all be his. But the first wave of attack was blocked at the junction of the passageways. He then gradually reinforced his forces to several thousand. The fanatical believers, clad in tattered armor, poured in through the breach, charging into the crossfire of the Apostolic Guardians, disappearing wave after wave like minced meat thrown into a meat grinder.

The Guardians' equipment withstood the test in this war of attrition. They wore dark gold full-body power armor—CMC—

The Type 120 is the latest mass-produced model finalized by Garros Foundry. Its ceramic-steel composite armor plate is a level thicker than the CMC-100, with the power backpack mounted externally on the back. Thick power cables run along the spine armor plate, connecting to the sides of the breastplate. During a reload, a cadet touched the side of the backpack with the back of his hand; the indicator light was green, indicating stable power. Without looking back, he slammed the new magazine into the chamber. A deep red robe covered the armor, its edges pressed tightly against the ceramic-steel plate by the circulating air, billowing in the dim emergency light like a layer of congealed blood.

This suit of armor lacks neural interfaces, but its protective layers are strong enough to withstand direct laser fire from Chaos Zealots. What's most needed on the battlefield is something reliable, durable, and capable of mass deployment, and this suit delivers on that promise.

The Cleric soldiers, wielding laser guns, formed a stable line of fire behind their shields. Blue-white beams exploded in the dimly lit passageways, each sniping precisely into the heads or chests of the Chaos Warriors. Meltgunners and plasma cannons, interspersed within the defensive line, fired alternately. The former melted the heavily armored units attempting to breach the shield wall into flowing metal and flesh, while the latter tore gaps in the crowd with overcharged blue-white arcs of electricity.

The dozen or so Chaos warriors leading the charge were torn to shreds the moment they stepped out of the gap. Some continued to push forward, but a second explosive shell pierced their breastplate, a third sliced ​​off their left arm, and by the fourth, their entire upper body exploded in the hail of bullets. Those behind them continued to surge through the shredded flesh, rushing through the gap with the reckless abandon characteristic of fanatics, only to be cut in half by equally precise fire.

The Apostolic Guard's defensive line was deployed at the intersection of the passageways. Two layers of terracotta shields were fixed at both ends of the passageway, arranged in a crisscross pattern, heat still emanating from the cooling vents along the edges of the shields. Behind each shield, three to four people crouched, one holding a heavy explosive rifle in front of the shield, while two others rapidly reloaded it from the rear, their movements as fluid as parts of a single machine. At the edge of the shield, someone drew a power sword. A dark blue energy field lit up in the dim light, the final link in the defensive line—if the Chaos horde broke through the firepower, the blade would await them at the breach.

They were forged in the ruins of Invernus. Those days of fighting house-to-house in the middle levels of the hive, those nights of holding their lines against repeated orcish tides, were etched into their muscle memory. The fanaticism of the Chaos warriors had no effect on them. They simply fired precisely, reloaded, shifted positions, and advanced according to their training rhythm.

A Chaos heavy infantryman, clad in tattered armor smuggled from the Imperial armory, squeezed through the gap, a multi-barreled thermobarrel in his hand. He used the first thermobarrel to melt through a shield, sending the shield-bearer sprawling. But he couldn't take a second step. Three thermobarrels and two armor-piercing rounds erupted simultaneously from behind cover on his flank, piercing his breastplate, abdomen, and neck. His heavy body collapsed to his knees, the thermobarrel barrels still hissing as they cooled.

The defenders' lines closed again within thirty seconds, and new terracotta shields were passed up from behind, landing with a thud and securing themselves in place.

The Chaos boarding party's first wave of attack was halted at the junction of the passageways; the twisted fanatics were unable to advance an inch against the steel and fire. They were pinned there, unable to retreat or advance.

Over the next three days, the commander of Chaos changed at least twice. The first leader was sliced ​​in half by a molten metal beam on the second day, and his replacement was melted into a twisted mass of metal and flesh by two molten metal bombs while attempting to bypass the maintenance tunnel on the third day. Now, the boarding party was led by a heavily armored soldier wearing terracotta armor looted from the Imperial armory, who was more cautious than the previous two—or rather, more aware that the path ahead was impassable.

On the morning of the fourth day, the Chaos Commander's patience ran out. He stared at the battle report on the bridge of the raider—four days, nearly ten thousand casualties, yet the defensive line had not collapsed. The Apostolic Army's firepower density had not decreased, indicating that ammunition reserves were still sufficient, and also meaning that a frontal assault would only be a waste of manpower. His finger paused for a moment on the control panel, then pressed the communication button.

"Let their warriors go up."

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At that moment, the shadows deep within the rift began to move.

The nature of the battle was completely transformed when the Chaos Space Marines appeared among the boarding party. A dozen or so men, their power armor etched with rusted eight-pointed stars, their shoulder armor edges welded with terracotta fragments looted from the Imperial armory, clutching chainsaw axes and chainsaw swords, stood alone in the chaotic mass, like rusted blades atop a pile of corpses. They didn't shout, they didn't urge, they simply moved forward like living battering rams whenever the Chaos mortals needed a breakthrough.

As several terrifying figures emerged from the breach, the Guardians' defensive line began to falter for the first time. The front shield wall recoiled several steps under the impact, the shield-bearers' knees buckled from the force, and their knuckles, gripping the shield handles, turned white from the strain. A brief lull appeared in the crossfire, and the gunners on both flanks instinctively took a half-step back before regaining their footing.

But the line did not collapse. The Apostles paid a heavy price—an entire squad was wiped off the line in the first wave of Chaos Space Marines' assault, power armor twisted and shattered under chainsaw axes, and severed limbs and terracotta fragments flew through the tunnels.

The molten lava guns and plasma cannons recalibrated their firing arcs, isolating the Chaos Space Marines from the crowd and sealing off the breach with firepower several times greater. Under the sustained barrage, the Chaos Space Marines were forced back into the rift—not because they were driven back, but because the Chaos commander, after assessing the casualty ratio, decided to withdraw them for resupply. Those figures vanished from the Apostolic Guard's sight, like the tide receding into darkness.

The corridor was littered with corpses—mostly Chaos cultists clad in tattered power armor or even worn-out shell armor, a few being the dark gold shell armor of the Garros Guardians. Bullet holes piled upon bullet holes in the bulkheads; airtight doors were melted through and welded back on, only to be melted through again. Each time a door was melted through, a new hand emerged from the smoke and dust to take up a shield.

The Crusader's defensive line had shrunk to between the three core compartments midships, forming a mutually reinforcing ring. Those in the rear were reinforcing the edges of their bunkers with terracotta plates salvaged from damaged armor; some crouched in corners, disassembling magazines and consolidating remaining ammunition into a single ammunition box. A Crusader carrying a plasma cannon crouched behind a bunker, removing a charging pack and plugging it into a spare port. The hem of his red robe was stained with dried green blood and black oil. The power backpack's energy indicator light shone a steady dark green in the dim emergency lights—it had been running continuously for four days, its power output showing no signs of decay. Ammunition was being counted rounds, but no one was retreating.

On the morning of the fourth day, a crawling sound came from the ventilation duct of cargo hold number three. The sergeant of the missionary force didn't turn around, but simply raised his hand to signal. Two soldiers silently adjusted the angle of their guns. A few seconds later, a hand covered in black grease appeared at the corner of the duct, followed by half a head. A heavy explosive round entered the duct from the side, detonating at extremely close range, pushing the severed torso out of the duct opening and sliding down the hold wall.

The chaotic fighters no longer charged head-on. They began trying to infiltrate through ventilation ducts, maintenance bays, and abandoned cable trays, like a group of rats trapped in an iron cage trying to squeeze out through every crack. But every crack was blocked, not by steel plates, but by the relentless defenders who refused to retreat.

Communications were interrupted on the third day. The interference came from the raider, whose communication array was far more powerful than that of the Saint Hymn. But on the morning of the fourth day, a pulse identifying the Garros trade route suddenly lit up on the communication panel. A broken signal squeezed through the jamming layer and barely managed to be decoded.

"This is the Garros patrol ship 'Lookout.' Om Messiah is with you."

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On the bridge of the HMS Hymn, the captain's finger paused for a moment on the communication key before pressing it. His voice was hoarse but clear: "HMS Hymn received. We are currently between cargo holds three and four. The boarding party is pinned down."

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As the Lookout leaped out of the subspace, the outline of the Chaos Raider was unfolding on the side of the Hymn on the sensor screens.

It was a medium-sized raider, its armor plates edged with bony spikes, its hull covered in dark purple subspace deposits. Its belly had already pressed against the broadside of the Saint's Hymn, the boarding tunnel extending from a rift like a bloodsucking tube piercing the cargo ship's belly. The Saint's Hymn's macro guns were still returning fire intermittently, but the firing rhythm was clearly erratic—the Chaos boarding team was sabotaging the fire control links inside the ship.

Hack did not hesitate.

As the Lookout cut into the Marauder's flank blind spot, its bow cannons opened fire at extremely close range. The shells struck precisely the weakest point of the Marauder's Void Shield, causing the force field barrier to flicker violently and revealing a scorch mark on the armor surface.

The Chaos Raider's broadside turrets attempted to turn, but the Lookout was too fast. The Sword-class frigate repeatedly pierced through the gaps in the Raider's fire, each shot hitting the same spot. The Void Shield's energy readings were steadily decreasing.

The captain of the raider faced a choice. The boarding party had already entered and was engaged in fierce fighting inside the cargo ship. If they cut off the passage and disengaged, that elite force would be abandoned. If they remained docked, the escort ship would continue to harass them, peeling away the Void Shield layer by layer until the side armor was breached. The former meant loss, the latter meant destruction. Chaos never feared sacrifice, but its wisdom lay in ensuring that sacrifice was worthwhile. The value of the Hymn was no longer sufficient to cover the costs of further investment.

The raider's boarding ramp remained open, but its main thrusters were reactivated. It slowly accelerated into deep space, dragging the connecting ramp, attempting to tow the Hymn away from this star system to a location free from harassment, where it could be dismantled at its own pace.

The HMS Saint Hymn was being dragged and began to veer, completely misaligning the firing arc of its main guns. The HMS Lookout had to make a choice: follow and continue harassing the Saint Hymn, forcing it off course; or try to cut off the boarding ramp, but the Sword-class frigates' firepower was insufficient to cut off the boarding ramp in a short time.

Harker chose the former. The Lookout pursued the raider from the flank and rear, continuously suppressing the Void Shield with its macro cannons, preventing it from readjusting the shield's energy distribution. Each hit only increased the raider's captain's frustration. But the boarding tunnel remained, and the struggle inside the cargo ship continued.

Inside the Athena Churaum, the tide of battle is quietly turning.

The elite Chaos boarding party had suffered heavy losses in the four days of attrition. Several more Chaos Space Marines were lost in the second assault, and the rest were withdrawn by the Chaos Commander—he needed an elite force to cover the rear during the retreat, not to cram all his troops into the corridor. The fanatical followers, now without Space Marine command, began to crumble under the continued casualties—not a collapse, but the kind of cracks that appear after repeated blows. The crew held the flank passage, allowing the Apostolic Guard to concentrate all their forces on the main battlefront. The Chaos Commander had committed too many, and could no longer withdraw—each loss required reinforcements, and each reinforcement came at an even higher cost. By the fourth day, Chaos had committed nearly ten thousand boarding troops, but the situation was completely out of control.

Meanwhile, the crew was repairing the remaining backup systems of the Saint Hymn one by one. Behind the bridge, the mechanic who had been guarding the fire control link cabinet for three days finally fixed the control panel. The fire control link indicator light changed from red to green.

"Main gun loop is now online. Energy loop output is still limited, so pay attention to your firing rhythm."

The captain's hand rested on the firing stick, watching the outline of the raider on the sensor screen. The Lookout was continuously harassing it from its flank and rear, and the Void Shield's energy readings had dropped below the critical threshold. He pulled back the firing stick.

The plasma macrocannon vibrated in the darkness, its plasma orb leaving a dark red trail in the vacuum before striking precisely the old wound on the raider's side armor. The void shield could no longer cover that spot. The energy orb melted through the armor and exploded inside the ship.

That was the final straw that broke the camel's back for the raider captain.

The boarding ramp, propelled by hydraulic thrusters, broke off from the side of the Saint's Hymn, its fragments drifting in the vacuum. The raider's main thrusters ignited at full power, and the hull rapidly disengaged from contact. A smoking gash appeared on its hull, the residual energy of the Void Shield flickering on the armor surface like a candle in the wind. It didn't look back, disappearing into the edge of deep space, its fading trail of flame behind it.

Inside the bridge of the USS Saint Hymn, the focusing crystal of the plasma macrocannon was still dissipating heat, its dark red residual heat gleaming faintly on the sensor screen. The captain released the firing lever, watching the marauder's exhaust plume gradually diminish until it disappeared into the disturbance at the edge of subspace.

The Lookout did not pursue. A scorch mark, the result of an energy weapon, ran along its side armor, and the Void Shield's energy reading had dropped to the red zone. Hark sat in the captain's chair, watching the raider disappear from the edge of the sensor, then pressed the communication button: "Sacred Hymn, report status."

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The reply was brief: "Internal clearing in progress. The boarding party has been isolated and surrounded. Some cables and backup systems are being restored; the ship is stable overall."

The dome of Galos Main Star I.

Several hours after disengaging from the battle at the Serflis line, Phyllis walked through the corridor of the side hall of the temple toward the fleet command. She wore a deep red technical priest's robe, trimmed with dark gold gear patterns, and a fourth-order logician's badge pinned to her collar. In her hand, she clutched a data tablet.

Her face was still the same. Her skin was a little fairer than before, gleaming evenly under the cool white light of the corridor. A faint bluish-white halo occasionally flickered deep within her irises—the periodic self-check of the optical sensor array in low-power mode. When she walked, the rotation of her shoulder joints was so precise it seemed unnatural; the outline of the metal joints was faintly visible beneath the sleeves of her robe, the fine gold skeleton extending from her elbows to her wrists, pressed down by the fabric. Each thud of her boots on the terracotta floor carried a barely perceptible high-frequency servo resonance.

The fleet command was in Marcus's flank office. The door was open, and when Phyllis walked in, Marcus was standing in front of the holographic table, the coordinates of the Serflis route and the location of the incident marked on the tactical projection in front of him. He heard footsteps but didn't turn around immediately. Only when Phyllis stood next to him did he glance at her.

"The report from the Hymn has arrived." Phyllis placed the data panel on the edge of the holographic stand, her voice steady. "Three thousand Apostles, wearing CMC-120s, held out for four days. Chaos increased their numbers from a few hundred to nearly ten thousand, and about a dozen Chaos Space Marines also came down, but the defensive line ultimately held. The crew also took up arms to cooperate, holding the flanks. After the Lookout arrived, it continued to harass, and the last macro cannon shot was fired from the Hymn's main gun, directly penetrating the marauder's side."

"6

Marcus picked up the data panel and flipped through a few pages. His right mechanical eye slowly expanded and contracted between the numbers and text on the screen. After reviewing them, he didn't speak immediately, but simply placed the panel back on the table. After a moment of silence, he finally asked, "What are the casualties of the Holy See?"

"Nearly half casualties. Thirty percent of the crew," Phyllis said. "The Saint's Hymn itself isn't in serious trouble. The fire control system has been repaired, the reactor was vibrated and its power output is unstable, but the hull structure isn't severely damaged. It will need further repairs after returning to port. But the escort force—currently only the Lookout is on regular patrols. A Sword-class frigate can do so little in the face of a real threat."

Marcus watched the projection of the Serflis route on the holographic platform. The blue route stretched out in the darkness, marked with the deployment locations of Garros' relay stations and patrol ships along the way. He traced the edge of the route with his finger: "The Lookout's tactics were correct—avoid direct confrontation, maintain continuous harassment, and drag it out until it reaches the Holy Hymn to turn the tide. Command judged that this route would not be peaceful in the future, and in fact, the Empire's routes have never truly been peaceful."

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He turned to look at Phyllis: "For the Serflis route, I suggest multiple Galaxy-class ships sailing in formation. We can also increase our escort ships to two for close escort."

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Phyllis nodded without saying anything more. She glanced at the blue flight path on the holographic display, then put the data pad into the inner pocket of her robe.

Marcus concluded, "Those that don't return are the daily occurrences of the Empire. But the ships of Garros must be able to return." He paused, "I also suggest that the Wanderer-class ships could be used solely for intra-system transport, such as the ore and fuel transport for Garros VI and IV. The resilience of the Galactic-class ships proves their effectiveness."

Phyllis turned and walked out of the office. The corridor lights remained cold and white as usual. The soles of her boots tapped evenly on the terrazzo floor, each step carrying a very subtle high-frequency servo resonance that gradually disappeared at the corner at the end of the corridor.