Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 162 The Direction of the Wind 943.M41

As the Black Pearl detached from its outer berth at Wangshu, the guide lights switched from blue to green, and the docking supports retracted silently with a low groan from the hydraulic pushers. The thrusters ignited, and the hull slid out of its steel cradle. Starlight swept across the surface of the adamantine armor plates, briefly condensing into a ring of iridescence in the thruster exhaust before dissipating into the cold silence of deep space.

The ship shuddered slightly before sailing into the vast emptiness.

On the Black Pearl, everything is in place.

The 16th Infantry Regiment of the Apostolic Guard, numbering over 10,000 men, were scattered across the ship's multiple decks. They wore dark gold Type 120 power armor, with gear and skull insignia etched on their shoulder armor, and crimson cloaks covering their terracotta plates. As they marched in formation through the corridors, their footsteps were like the repetitive pulse of a forging hammer—precise, heavy, and without a single wasted step. Behind each soldier's shoulder armor floated a modified servo skull, its base fitted with a laser array that fired in tandem via the Thinker interface built into the power armor. The Temple's technical priest team had insisted on this equipment—in their view, this was the proper bearing of the Apostolic Guard, a visual extension of the Om Messiah's blessing onto the battlefield.

The Stormstrike Force occupied the perimeter of the bridge. Led personally by Kara, the 1,200 men were all clad in dark gold 300E precision armor. In standby mode, their joint servo systems emitted a very low hum, and the energy channels occasionally flashed with a faint dark gold light, like the breath of a slumbering beast. They stood silently at their posts, relaxed, like chainsaws hanging on the wall—quiet, but ready to be activated at any moment. No servo skulls followed them.

The psionic section is located mid-section, adjacent to the navigation module. All six members of the Star Language Choir, drawn from the Fireseed, are in position. Eleanor sits on the main pedestal, a black ribbon concealing her burned eye sockets, the dark gold runes of the psionic focusing pedestal pulsating slowly around her. Her fingers rest on the interface panel of the receiver array, continuously scanning for signal fragments in the warp throughout the voyage. Hera Voss sits to her side and slightly behind, responsible for the Black Pearl's own shipboard communications, while also assisting with the choir's daily operations. The five members of the Garros Psionic Support Team, led by Isa Velen, occupy the adjacent shielded compartment. Their dark grey robes and the silver glow of the shielding runes on their foreheads gleam faintly in the dim light. The eleven members share four psionic shielded compartments, working in shifts, with one group always on standby.

Two decks above, the doors to the independent compartments on the upper deck were closed. Thirty nuns in silver shrouds had already settled in, with Sister Valeria leading the boarding procession. Explosive guns, chainsaw swords, and prayer books hung neatly on the bulkheads, their grey and white power armor etched with rose emblems. The Sister's own chainsaw sword rested against the headboard, the prayer inscription on its blade slowly turning in the cabin light. They weren't participating in any patrols. Valeria uttered only six words: "We're just following." As she finished speaking, she removed her fingers from the hilt of her chainsaw sword, letting it hang at her side, without looking at anyone else.

Inside the navigation cabin, Sera sat in the main seat. Her third eye gleamed a pale purple light through the gap in the metal disc on her forehead. Behind her, two young Novak family navigators sat on auxiliary pedestals, their dark blue robes and forehead veils embroidered with the same family crest. The three took turns on watch, ensuring the Black Pearl's course remained unchanged throughout the eight- to nine-week voyage. Sera reported the coordinates every four hours, her voice steady and pendulum-like.

Marcus made a final check on the bridge. The blue halo of his right mechanical eye steadily expanded and contracted, and the flight path data scrolled line by line on the tactical console. Maggie stood behind the logistics control panel, checking the adamantite castings in the gift box prepared for White Scar in the cargo hold, the standardized mech components, and the three Star Language relay station amplifiers. She closed the data panel and said, "The list matches." Then she returned to her position. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the edge of the data panel, thinking of the fifty Star Fortress mechs that the Martian sage had personally delivered to the ship before his departure. How much had been extracted from the Fireseed's deep storage compartments was an answer that didn't need to be answered.

Cohen stood by the porthole of the private workshop, watching Wangshu's silhouette gradually shrink in the darkness. The steel fortress rotated slowly under the starlight, the blue exhaust of its ion thrusters receding. The Black Pearl was heading towards Mandeville Point, while Chogris was still more than eight weeks away. He stood there for a moment, then turned and walked out of the workshop. The corridor was empty, save for the low hum of the ventilation system that echoed between the metal walls.

The first few weeks of the voyage were uneventful. The Black Pearl passed Mandeville Point and leaped into the subspace, the porthole armored covers descending in stages, driven by hydraulic pushers, with a low, echoing sound, as if the hull itself were closing its eyes. The hum of the Geller Field surged from the depths of the hull, pressing down on the air in every compartment, becoming a background noise that did not need to be heard.

The 16th Regiment of the Guardians conducted a routine tactical drill on the cargo deck. Soldiers repeatedly practiced boarding and counter-boarding maneuvers in the simulated compartment, while officers, watching the tactical projection from a high observation corridor, used their power armor communication links to say, "Third group's servo skulls, remember to turn off binary prayer." After the drill, they sheathed their weapons, lined up, and returned to their compartments; no one chatted. The 16th Regiment was a contingent of the Garros Planetary Defense Force, converted into the Guardians on the spot. They had experienced the repeated assaults on the defensive lines by orcish tides, and many had undergone deep mechanization after losing limbs in the war. They were disciplined, efficient, and silent; their faith was expressed in action, not words.

The doors to the psionic module remained closed. Eleanor's choir rotated every six hours, while Isa Velen's support team remained on standby in the adjacent compartment. Occasionally, a short binary pulse would seep through the crack in the door, only to be absorbed by the shielding array and fall silent again. Sailors patrolling the module would quicken their pace as they passed that corridor, and no one would glance in that direction twice.

By the fifth week of sailing, a standard itinerary announcement came over the intercom, and the Star Array confirmed the course was correct. After the announcement, a brief hushed conversation broke out in the mess hall, then silence returned. No one was surprised. The Black Pearl never deviated from its course.

Cohen appeared in the canteen at the same time every day. He carried his tray to a corner seat, cut a piece of Grox steak, drank a cup of synthetic coffee, and then left. No one approached him to speak, but some would slow down as they passed his table, leaving behind a dish, a dessert, a few pieces of pickled root vegetables, and a pot of hot water. The origin of these items was untraceable; they had simply been there since some day. Cohen neither asked nor refused. After finishing his meal, he put his tray back in the recycling bin and walked back to the workshop down the corridor.

In the ninth week and three days, the Black Pearl leaped from Mandeville. The hull shuddered violently, and the porthole armor panels rose in stages, driven by hydraulic pushers. Starlight poured in from outside—the stars of Bigalos were dimmer, their spectrum orange-tinged, and the light fell on the armor panels like a layer of gold foil worn thin by time.

Choglis.

Cohen stood at the porthole of the bridge. Chogris's main planet appeared in the distance, its surface shrouded in greyish-white clouds, with grasslands and mountains stretching alternately through gaps in the clouds. Large facilities were almost invisible in orbit, only a few isolated small space stations scattered haphazardly in low Earth orbit, like chess pieces strewn along the edge of a chessboard. This planet lacked the steel thorns of a hive city, the rusty industrial ironwork that forged the world; only the wind blew freely under the open sky, from one end of the grassland to the other, never ceasing.

On the sensor screen, three signals were rapidly approaching. They moved with incredible speed and precision, lacking the lengthy identity verification of the Imperial Navy or the ritualistic binary prefixes of the Forged World. They simply arrived, identified themselves, and awaited a response.

The communication panel lit up. A low Gothic recognition pulse arrived before the speech, brief in format and cleanly encoded. Then came a deep voice, speaking faster than Imperial Standard, with the guttural lilts characteristic of the Chogris steppe dialect.

"Black Pearl, confirmed. Identification code verified. Welcome to Chogris. Please proceed along the marked course. The Great Khan awaits on the surface."

Communication cut off. Concise and direct.

Three White Scar patrol ships came into view. They were longer than the Imperial Navy's standard Sword-class corvettes, with noticeably redesigned propeller layouts and smoother lines on their side armor. Their paint scheme was greyish-white, and the prairie crescent insignia gleamed a dim silver in the starlight. They passed the Black Pearl in loose formation on either side, slowed, and converged ahead to begin guiding it. The entire process was conducted without a single superfluous exchange; they confirmed their identities and then cleared a path.

The Black Pearl followed them inward. The surface of Chogris slowly magnified in their view. Grasslands covered most of the land, mountains rose in the north, and the southern desert gleamed a dark red in the slanting rays of the stars. There were no hive cities, no colossal industrial complexes, only sparse settlements scattered along the transition zone between the grasslands and mountains. In the Imperial's official records, this planet was called "The Flat World," but its inhabitants and guardians called it Chogris.

As Cohen stepped off the shuttle, the winds of Chogris rushed in from the gangway. Dry, carrying the scent of grass and dust, it was far harsher than the circulating winds of Garros. Starlight fell on the sage's robes, and waves of heat reflected from the ground, surging in from all directions without obstruction. He walked along the dirt road toward the hills.

Kublai Khan stood atop a low hill. He wore light ceremonial armor, over which lay a dark red traditional robe, its edges embroidered with the battle motto of his tribe in gold thread. The wind blew from the side, yet his robe remained motionless, like a stone statue that had stood for a long time on the steppe. Old scars on his bones gleamed darkly in the setting sun.

The greeter stood two steps behind him, sheltered from the wind. Seeing Cohen approach, he pressed his right fist to his chest to confirm the guest's identity, then stepped aside.

Khan waited until Cohen had taken the last few steps before extending his arms to meet Cohen's forearms and touch wrists together.

"Foundry Director. When the winds of Chogris swept across the grasslands, I received your message from the stars."

"The Mars matter is settled." Cohen also extended his arm. "I accepted White Scar's invitation, so I should come."

The Khan released his grip and gestured to the side. The two walked side by side toward the council chamber. The usher followed a few steps behind.

The wind blew in from the side, pressing the robe and cloak to one side. The grassland stretched to the horizon, the waves of grass rippled by the wind, alternating between light and shadow in the slanting rays of the stars.

The council chamber sat atop a low hill. Its outer walls were constructed of rough stone, gathered by White Scar himself from the grasslands, stacked piece by piece, the gaps filled with dried mud. Stone pillars flanked the entrance, their surfaces inscribed with battle maxims and crescent moon emblems in the Chogris language. The edges of the carvings had been worn smooth by the wind, some areas blurred beyond recognition. As Cohen crossed the threshold, his gaze lingered for a moment on one of the carvings—the last stroke of the inscription was severed by a sharp new crack.

Then he looked away and went inside.

Khan picked up a clay pot from the end of the long table, poured two cups of dark red liquid, and pushed one towards him. Cohen picked it up and took a sip—sour, astringent, then hot. He took another sip and put the cup down.

The Khan sat back in his chair and placed his wine glass on the table. He did not lean back in his chair, but rather leaned slightly forward, with his weight on his knees—the posture of a steppe rider discussing matters in a tent.

"There are traces of several network entrances at the edge of the Chogris system. Whitescar's scouts tracked the remnants of Eldar scout units, disappearing near those coordinates—entering the network and never to be seen again." He paused, his finger hovering over the rim of his glass. "Let's talk about the expedition first. Whitescar's plan is to launch the Second Damocles Expedition around Imperial Year 952. The Tau's expansion there has been accelerating, and the Empire's tolerance on the eastern frontier is nearing its breaking point."

The Khan placed the wine glass on the table, the bottom of the glass making a short, muffled sound as it touched the wood grain.

"I've covered most of the eastern frontier. The Interior Ministry says that by the time the first expedition was ready and the fleet was ready to set sail, the Tau had already expanded again. The logistics evaluator at the Department of Military Affairs says that the supply lines across the Gulf of Damocles will only be longer than the last time."

He paused for a moment.

"The theater command staff sat behind their sand tables, using the same models for three years. Their conclusion was always the same: the risk was too high, and a postponement was recommended." They said the orbit around Dalis Prime was crammed with Tau and Krut fleets, and its ground defenses were thicker than any Imperial assessment could provide. They were right; the First Expedition crashed there."

He looked up.

"Over in the Forgeworld—Ferquinia is hesitant. The Steel Hand believes the timing is not right. The Ultramarines also believe there isn't enough logistical support. Without the industrial capacity of the Forgeworld to back it up, the probability of success is indeed very small."

The Khan's voice lowered by an octave.

"But White Scar believes now is the best time. Storm Prophet is very pessimistic about crossing into the new millennium."

He leaned back in his chair, the rim of the cup slowly swirling between his fingers.

"The first expedition wasn't a defeat, but it wasn't a victory either. The Empire and the Tau negotiated a withdrawal because the Hive fleet was approaching. The commanders didn't say it, but they knew in their hearts: without sufficient technological support and logistical resources, a second expedition would only repeat the same mistakes. I need to show them that someone is willing to endorse this expedition—not just a promise, but the industrial capacity to build a world, a complete logistical chain, and a fleet capable of sustaining a long-term operation. I need to show them that this time, the possibility of failure has been reduced to a sufficiently low level."

Cohen looked at him without speaking. Khan continued, "If Garros appears on the mobilization list with your fleet and Titans—those forces that are still hesitating will no longer hesitate. Because you represent the commitment of an entire forging world. Garros's very existence is a signal—someone is willing to endorse this expedition with industrial capacity."

Cohen was silent for a moment. "Great Khan, you can now use the name of Garros' world-building to persuade those wavering forces. Garros will deploy the Titan Legion and the Guardians of the Faith, as well as the entire Garros fleet."

The Empire's eastern border indeed needs to be resolved before that crucial juncture. Otherwise, in the original timeline, the Empire would be engulfed in war and unable to attend to its eastern frontier, leaving the Tau people to continue their expansion.

The Khan's gaze lingered on his face for a moment, then he raised his glass, took a large gulp, and set it down. "The eagle of the steppe has finally grown wings. I didn't care about your channels for your last warning; I only told you what to do."

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"Gallos's objective was clear: to find their hunting party and then deliver a fatal blow."

The Khan picked up his wine cup again, but didn't drink. He simply held it in his hand, the rim slowly swirling between his fingers. "You know, Chagatai Khan's disappearance is White Scar's deepest hatred. The Net Path, the Dark Spirits, are White Scar's destiny. Hunting them is White Scar's path." He paused, his fingers resting on the rim of the cup. "Hunting them."

Cohen was silent for a moment, then took out a data tablet from inside his robe and placed it on the stone table.

"The Fireseed's deep armory contains a batch of equipment from the Great Expedition era. Fifty scimitar-type flying motorcycles and fifty Hades-type Terminator armors. The inventory that Great Sage Enp brought with the Ark back then is in good condition. Garros has no use for them, but White Scar will."

Khan's hand paused on the table for a moment. He looked at the data panel, not picking it up immediately. Then he reached out his left hand and ran his fingernail along the edge of the panel, as if confirming that the metal was indeed there. His movement was slow, his fingertips gliding over the chamfered edge, before he withdrew his hand and placed it back on the rim of the cup.

"A scimitar-shaped flying motorcycle," he said. "A Hades-type Terminator." His voice was half an octave lower than before. "Punoliss has sealed these things away for tens of thousands of years, and now Garros has decided to bring them out."

"Yes," Cohen said. "Garros's sincerity towards White Scar."

Khan pushed the data panel back. "But White Scar isn't used to being in debt."

"This is an investment." Cohen didn't accept it. "We need White Scar's cyber intelligence and reconnaissance capabilities. The flying motorcycle and Terminator armor are a deposit. Subsequent cooperation will be settled based on the value of the intelligence."

The Khan stared at him for a few seconds. Then he downed the rest of his drink, put down his glass, and stretched out his arm. "White Scar will remember everything you brought."

Cohen grasped his arm in return. "Garros won't forget either."

The two released each other's hands. Cohen finished the rest of his drink. Outside the window, the prairie stretched out in the twilight, the starlight receding, pressing the sky into a narrow, dark golden border. The wind blew in through the open doorway, stirring the wine glasses on the table and tracing a long, thin arc across the wood-grain surface.

The Khan remained seated in his chair and did not stand up.

Cohen paused at the doorway, turned, and pressed his right fist against the gear and skull emblem on his chest, performing a full gear salute. The Khan's right hand rose slightly from his knee, then lowered.

Cohen turned and walked out. Dusk poured in from the entrance, stretching his shadow long and casting it on the stone walls of the council chamber, then following him down the dirt path, slowly dissipating into the shadows of the grassland. The wind chased after him, ruffling the edges of his robe, flipping up and then pressing down the dark gold gear pattern on the hem. He didn't look back.

Hours later, the Black Pearl remained in orbit around Chogris. Three Star Language Relay Tower Amplifiers, along with flying motorcycles and Terminator armor, were loaded into transport planes and launched onto the surface of Chogris, after confirmation from White Scar military officer. White Scar's reconnaissance teams had already dispersed into the outer reaches of the system, while the Storm Prophets remained awake in their respective silencing pods.

The Black Pearl remained silently on its tracks. White Scar awaited its prey.

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