In the mountains far from the basin, Orks were howling, and Khrave's kin were roaring.
Dorn fought until his golden armor was stained with foul blood, his enemies shifting from Khrave's kin to Orks as the battle turned from a purge into a chaotic melee.
"Time is up."
He silently noted in his heart, and right on cue the next second, his helmet's timer gave a crisp chime, signaling the end of the raid countdown.
"Move!" His brother's voice held no hesitation as he ordered the assault squad to withdraw.
"Understood." Dorn swept his twin swords, taking off the heads of the closing Orks, and decisively fell back toward the rendezvous point.
He glanced at the projected data: the clearing raid had been a complete success.
In a five-minute raid, eighty percent of Khrave's kin were wiped out, and the survivors fled scattered through the curtain of rain under the cover of chaos.
Having suffered such a heavy blow, Khrave's kin would find it hard to ever form a threat of significant scale again.
The greatest threat before the final battle was considered cleared.
Dorn breathed a silent sigh of relief. By the time he reached the assembly point, the Blazkowicz Warriors had cleared out a landing pad, where an anti-gravity gunship was already waiting.
"We need to hurry." Blazkowicz stepped briskly, and Dorn matched his pace at a near-jog.
The two Primarchs hurried into the cabin, and before the tail gate could even close, the gunship took off in haste.
Over a hundred gates of light appeared in the rain as the Blazkowicz Warriors ignited their jump packs, rising into the air like swallows returning to their nest to reboard the vehicles.
Discarding all stealth, the anti-gravity gunship ran at full throttle, carving a trajectory through the sheets of rain as it rushed back to the Adamant Basin.
Through the cabin's holographic projection, Dorn saw clearly that following the fall of Khrave's base, the other two xenos fortresses were also falling one after another.
Losing their triangular mutual defense and psychic support, the alien fortresses were swallowed by the Ork tide—it was now merely a matter of time.
But that no longer concerned humanity.
The strike force's top priority now was returning to the outpost base.
A grueling battle awaited them there—
---
Along the outer defense perimeter of the forward base, the Orks braved a hail of bolt shells and artillery, rolling onward into the twelve-kilometer-wide expanding fan sector at the throat of the mid-tier defense line.
Artillery and bolters felt somewhat feeble against the green tide; they did not fear death.
On the contrary, the trembling earth, the thick smoke, and the pungent reek of blood flooding their nostrils were the ultimate stimulants to make the boyz' blood boil.
Their eyes were bloodshot, their veins bulging, and that united Waaaaaagh! forcefield empowered the Orks' charge while dulling the damage from bolts and human weaponry.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Roars echoed across the battlefield as several Ork Warbosses led their bodyguards, crashing against the line through the heavy bombarding fire.
Under the expectations of tens of thousands of Orks, the Waaaaaagh! field was wildly poured into these brutal bodies, the Warbosses shimmering with the furious green glow of the forcefield.
Even as its dark armor was pockmarked by bolt impacts and its flesh flew apart in rotten chunks, it continued forward with a cruel grin.
The Warboss knew nothing of death; behind its crimson eyes lay only a desperate yearning—the longing to claim the glory of breaching the enemy line under the watchful gaze of all.
"Stop them!"
The commander growled calmly. Heavy support squads mounted heavy bolters and lascannons, pouring the Legion's wrath upon the wild beasts.
Heavy bolts shattered armor and lascannons melted flesh, yet nothing could stop it from carrying its Waaaaaagh! conviction. Even with its thighs reduced to bone held together by threads of flesh, it still forced itself forward!
Furthermore, a distance of five hundred meters was merely a matter of two or three seconds for extraordinary lifeforms.
Braving the heavy fire with terrifying tenacity, three Warbosses breached the defense line in the blink of an eye!
For the first time, the Orks had set foot upon human positions!
BOOM! Red lightning flashed down as a Warboss's massive hydraulic claw swept across, instantly smashing the upper torso of an Imperial Fists warrior into bloody pulp!
Yet the Space Marine's unyielding legs remained stubbornly planted in the trench embankment.
"HA! HA! HA! HA!"
A terrifying laugh rang out as human blood splashed across the human line, and a certain concept quietly shattered.
Upon this extraordinary battlefield watched by gods, in places beyond mortal awareness, countless concepts were already intertwined, weaving the outcomes of victory and defeat.
The moment the Orks set foot on the human line, the concepts representing "purity" and "invincibility" were crushed by something far more aggressive.
With the concept broken and Orks pouring into the defense line, even warriors with minds as strong as Space Marines could not help but experience a shift in their state of mind.
This subtle shift was, naturally, exactly what the Ork Bosses wanted to see.
"Waaaaaagh!!!"
Positioned behind the green tide, they beat their chests with massive weapons and roared, urging the boyz to keep smashing into the human position.
Seeing the glorious feat of breaching the line, the boyz grew even crazier; the chaotic concepts of Ork fearlessness and bloodlust completely took the upper hand!
The backbone of morale that had been broken by Blazkowicz was now reconstructing at an astonishing speed—and mutating into something far tougher!
Because the Orks saw hope.
Never underestimate the impact of a mindset shift on Orks.
The power of the Waaaaaagh! stemmed from "belief." When they saw hope, the power of belief grew boundlessly, bending the entire battlefield.
A dangerous transformation was taking place silently within the Orks.
Their junk vehicles became sturdier, their cobbled-together weapons more reliable, and their haphazard shooting more accurate.
Ranged weapons that were previously harmless and prone to exploding in their hands instantly morphed into reliable arms, posing long-range threats to Space Marines.
The boyz trusted their rides and weapons to bring victory to the Waaaaaagh!
Beyond the Orks themselves, the Space Marines were affected as well.
In the eyes of the Orks, those bright yellow "gits" were frail and helpless, completely incapable of stopping their explosive Waaaaaagh!
Under the influence of this strange power, the Space Marines felt an inexplicable sense of dread; their fingers on the triggers began to stiffen, their marksmanship lost its precision, and subtle micro-second delays crept into their reactions.
Under a Waaaaaagh! field of this scale, the physiological and psychological states of the Legion warriors inevitably suffered strange anomalies.
A single move affected the entire board; the departure of the majority of the Blazkowicz Warriors had caused psychic suppression to plummet, allowing the Orks' "I fink, therefore it works" power to start "finking" human defeat into reality.
In a split second, multiple Ork assault squads burst from the ranks and charged the human trenches.
The situation was critical beyond measure. Facing the frantic charge unleashed by the Orks, the Imperial Fists' defense line began to sway, putting the adamantium embankment to an unprecedented test.
"Vermin!"
Just as a Warboss trampled the human line and slaughtered Space Marines, stoking Ork morale to its peak, a thunderous roar broke out, interrupting its bloodthirsty, wild laughter.
A Blazkowicz Warrior leveled his gunblade, smashing through the curtain of rain as he charged, letting out a thunderous bark: "Get down!"
Leaping forcefully into the air, the lily emblem on his pauldrons and the Mark of Blazkowicz gleamed in harmony—he was a legendary Nurg-born warrior rebuilt from the ashes!
The legendary warrior tucked his knees and slammed directly into the chest of the six-meter-tall Warboss, forcing the ferocious beast backward onto the ground.
As its chest armor shattered, the Warboss felt a surge of weakness overcome it, as if some entity had ceased to watch over it.
The sudden loss of strength left it no time to counterattack; it could only watch helplessly as its chest caved in, spraying blood and heart fragments from its gaping maw.
"Scum!" The warrior pressed his entire body against the Ork, raising his spear high and driving it down viciously.
Blood gushed forth as the battle roar turned into an unwilling wail. The dimensional spear plunged into the throat, shredding tongue, gullet, and heart, snuffing out the final death rattle.
As the Warboss fell, the backlash of the Waaaaaagh! field exploded, affecting the two nearby bosses as well.
The Imperial Fists warriors decisively seized the opportunity.
Discarding their bolters, they drew chainswords and power weapons, rushing toward the two trapped six-meter monsters.
Amid the thick mist of blood, the Warbosses continued to swing their crude weapons wildly, swatting Space Marines aside like wolves killing prey.
The strong, three-to-four-meter-tall boyz of the Ork bodyguards also joined the fray, joining the brutal melee with the Space Marines.
"For the Primarch!"
"Waaaaaagh!"
In the blood-dripping rain, furious war cries and savage yells merged together as both sides fought themselves blind at the front lines!
Power weapons tore through Ork plate, while brute force drove crude blades through power armor; chainswords chewed through savage flesh, while power klaws halved Space Marines at the waist.
Paying with dozens of lives, the Legion warriors surged to the Warboss's feet, severing its legs with power swords and hacking it to pieces.
The last boss-level Ork suffered heavy fire suppression, its head blasted apart by heavy bolter rounds.
As the Ork Boss's corpse tumbled down the defensive embankment, the green tide drew right up to their faces in the next instant. Dozens of Nobz and Warbosses, leading a thousand-strong bodyguard, launched a full-scale offensive!
"A worthy death!"
Amid the pouring rain that carried an unbearable oppression, the legendary warrior shouted the Legion's battle cry, kicking the Boss's corpse off the embankment with one strike.
"Come on!" He let out a low growl, his aura overwhelming ten thousand troops. Taking off his cumbersome helmet, his bright blue eyes burned like lamps. "Step before me and face your dignity-less death."
"Cover me! I'll buy you firing windows!"
Plunging his spear into the embankment, the legendary warrior drew twin lightsabers from his waist and charged fearlessly into the Ork tide without stepping back an inch.
Scenes like this were playing out all along the front line as the Blazkowicz Warriors stepped out of their positions to meet the enemy head-on!
"Your dark stars of death hang high!"
As the Blazkowicz Warriors surged past the line to carve out a buffer zone, the Imperial Fists refused to be outdone. Lower-level company captains roared: "Keep up the fire support! Target the Ork leaders!"
"Beast!"
The legendary warrior bellowed fiercely, his golden hair wild in the pouring rain, his gaze sharp as lightning.
Unlike ordinary warriors, he was far from calm; within his azure eyes burned an indescribable wildness.
"Your opponent is me!" A provocative force on the battlefield, he whirled his twin lightsabers like fluttering butterfly wings, charging back at the Warboss as a shadowy blur.
"Big 'un!" The Warboss answered the challenge, abandoning the positions well within its reach to stomp heavily toward him.
Orks were an emotional race; when directly provoked in combat, they often could not stomach the insult, abandoning any strategic objective to meet the challenge head-on.
"I am—"
The Warboss roared, intent on proclaiming its name in honorable single combat to attract the gaze of Gork and Mork and ascend to Warboss properly.
"The weak do not deserve to be remembered." Faster than his own words, the legendary warrior dropped into a slide on both knees mid-charge, dodging the massive choppa as it swung through the air. "The one who slays you is Andalus the Regicide!"
Sliding across the slick, muddy ground, Andalus leaned back, flinging both arms wide with his blades extended.
In a moment where time seemed almost frozen, he executed a slide-tackle to dodge the lethal strike, passing right beneath the Warboss's crotch before his composite shoulder cannons burst into full fire!
Dimensional beams shot upward, piercing the boss's massive body from the groin and blowing straight through its oversized skull.
Suffering such a devastating blow, a human or almost any other race would have died instantly.
Yet this was an Ork!
Though the cutting beam was razor-sharp, its spatial depth was limited, leaving behind a wound as thin as a cicada's wing. For a half-fungal, half-biological creature like an Ork, such damage was not yet fatal.
Hating this slippery big 'un, the Warboss tried to turn and counterattack, only to find its body refusing to obey.
By the time the pain in its legs finally registered in its brain, it realized both of its legs had already been severed.
Then everything went black as it completely lost consciousness.
After severing the Ork's legs with his twin blades and finishing it off from behind with his shoulder cannon, Andalus rolled through the pool of blood, narrowly avoiding a heavy warhammer crashing down beside him.
He was now facing two more Ork Bosses.
As warhammers smashed down and heavy boots tried to trample him, Andalus rolled through the bloody mud, his armor and handsome face becoming smeared with gore.
Despite the frantic evasion, his eyes remained as calm and deep as still water, completely devoid of panic. Suddenly halting his roll, he lay flat on his back, looking up at the two savage behemoths.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Crude explosions followed in rapid succession as the Warboss pulled the trigger of its massive shoota without a shred of mercy.
As the dense smoke of the crude ammunition burst forth, a pale blue membrane flashed to life—the dimensional shield swallowed every last round.
The Warboss did not understand shields, but that didn't stop it from swinging its giant iron hammer with murderous intent, bringing it down viciously.
"Anti-gravity." Spoken in the Language of Creation, the heavy hammer about to crush Andalus's head was forcibly lifted by the altered laws of physics.
Rising swiftly, he aimed his dimensional blade at the bewildered Ork and fired a cutting beam, slaying the second Warboss.
As the massive head fell, a violent horizontal slash tore through the air with the roar of wind and thunder, threatening to cleave Andalus in two.
"Barrier." Without turning around—and without time to turn—that strange intonation rang out once more as the Words of Creation erected a barrier behind him.
CLANG!!
A violent impact echoed out as the heavy choppa slammed into the transparent barrier, unleashing a visible shockwave that shattered the rainy night and the thunder.
"Ngh!" Andalus let out a muffled grunt as a tickling sensation welled up under his nose, two streams of dark red blood bursting from his nostrils.
The Warboss's blow carried sheer brute force paired with the strength of the Waaaaaagh! field—touching both reality and illusion—striking into his mental realm along the lines of the incanted barrier. It triggered violent psychic turbulence that ultimately manifested in his physical body.
No matter how resilient a Blazkowicz Warrior's mind was, the damage was very real—a price that could not be avoided when warping reality.
Flaring his nostrils, Andalus exhaled a burst of scorching breath. Forcibly summoning his focus once more, he chanted in the Language of Creation: "Time Acceleration!"
The power of a Warboss was beyond mortal imagination.
He had to employ high-risk tactics, using incantations repeatedly in order to slay these abominable monsters.
As the strange intonation faded, everything around him seemed to hit slow-motion, gradually grinding down as if the majestic force of time itself had lingered here.
Andalus's figure abruptly accelerated, surging through the frozen time like a dark shadow, his twin blades carving out countless lethal slashes!
WHOOSH—!
The heavy rain resumed its roaring downpour; time flowed normally once more.
The last Warboss's body collapsed with a thunderous crash like a landslide, crumbling into a pile of warm, mangled flesh.
Breathing the bloody air heavily, Andalus fought off the dizziness, gritting his teeth against the tearing pain in his throat caused by the repeated use of the Words of Creation.
He retreated with swift steps, having no intention of staying to fight.
His mission was complete; remaining ahead of the firing line would be nothing more than empty bravado and would only block his allies' line of sight.
"Man the defensive line!"
The Ork tide was like a fuse: once lit, it could not be stopped until the entire battlefield was blown apart!
Realizing that the defense line was inevitably wavering, the Nur Elite Legion arrived in time, moving onto the defensive embankment to fill the firepower gaps created in the chaos.
A Second-Tier Legion—a hundred thousand professional warriors alongside their automated battle-automata—was unquestionably a formidable force of reinforcement.
The Blazkowicz Warriors had sallied forth to kill enemies precisely to buy them this time.
When the Orks launched their green tide charge, the Nur Elite Legion had already set out from the battle fortress to aid the Imperial Fists in holding back the Orks.
This was the contingency plan left behind by the two Primarchs before their departure.
To prevent the Orks from noticing any abnormalities, the Elite Legion had remained on standby in the rear for a long time. The moment the Orks realized most of the Blazkowicz Warriors had left, the army moved immediately to reinforce the front.
Following the plan, the Elite Legion took up positions along the defense line.
The barrels of their electromagnetic nailguns gleamed with eerie blue light, firing steel needles at seven times the speed of sound, using pure kinetic energy to slaughter the frenzied Ork boyz.
Compared to bolters, against large waves of lower-grade enemies, the penetration power of kinetic steel needles proved far more effective.
Every single needle pierced through at least three or four Orks, leaving fist-sized holes in their bodies.
Combined with the Elite Legion's battle-automata, the defense line's firepower surged several times over, halting the Ork wave dead in its tracks three hundred meters out!
"Legion warriors, focus on high-tier enemy units!"
With fresh troops joining the fight, the Imperial Fists company captains decisively issued orders for the Legion warriors to concentrate on the Ork Warbosses.
In an instant, the bolter fire suppressing the Ork wave all shifted toward those few isolated ships braving the green sea—the Warboss assault squads.
"Puny gits!"
The Warboss vanguard let out frustrated roars, but the precarious line was rapidly stabilizing under the fresh reinforcements.
Those "gits" were even smaller than the yellow gits, yet at the most critical juncture, their sheer numbers provided overwhelming firepower.
Fast, accurate, and ruthless!
The electromagnetic nailguns hummed with energy. Almost instantly, the front armor of the Warbosses leading the charge—painted with red-fanged patterns—was peppered with a dense constellation of steel needles.
Though non-lethal and unable to pierce the heavy armor despite their terrifying appearance, the dense impact force slowed the Warbosses' charge down to a crawl.
The moment their footsteps faltered, a hundred battle-automata synchronously fired boosted lasers. The Warbosses were instantly engulfed in searing heat, turning into the most dazzling burning statues on the battlefield.
Their Waaaaaagh! fields dissolved, their heavy iron armor melted, and their savage flesh vaporized.
The Space Marines showed no mercy either. Heavy support squads poured charged plasma and volkite beams straight at the Warbosses, turning every last Ork that dared violate the defense line into pitch-black cinders!
Relying on absolute firepower, the human defense line once again stabilized its footing against the Orks!
Before firepower of this magnitude, even extraordinary lifeforms at the level of Primarchs or Ork Bosses would not dare take the full brunt head-on.
More often than not, they relied on their speed to dodge incoming fire and break through the line.
To take Legion-level firepower head-on meant only one outcome: death.
Not to mention that the Nur Elite Legion was impeccably equipped; besides electromagnetic nailguns, their accompanying battle-automata were heavily outfitted with melta and plasma weaponry, boasting indisputable armor-piercing capabilities.
Even within the Imperium of Man, where standard-issue lasguns were mockingly dubbed "flashlights" by the Imperial Auxilia, a hundred lasguns firing in unison at the same target and emptying a magazine would be enough to melt through any power armor.
Thus, one must never underestimate the power of mortals.
Subjected to various energy beams, the Ork assault squads—Warbosses and bodyguards alike—were collectively vaporized under the concentrated fire.
Under the dense cover fire of their allies, the Blazkowicz Warriors who had sallied out charged back to the line without looking back, leaving behind only the Ork Bosses howling in fury.
"Clear the corpses! Maintain a clear line of sight!"
Receiving orders from above, the mortal soldiers hoisted micro-nuclear rocket launchers, aimed beyond the shield canopy, and decisively pulled the trigger.
Several mushroom clouds rose in the distance of the battlefield. Extreme light and heat vaporized blood and melted corpses, blasting wide open gaps through the sea of Orks.
Not to be outdone, the Orks immediately retaliated with their giant siege shootas, their junk artillery shells crashing against the shield and sparking only a few reluctant ripples.
The starry expanse was magnificent, yet it concealed endless killing intent.
If ground combat was a slaughterous meat grinder of steel and flesh, then the fleet battles in the void were a grand game of chess played with entire star systems as the board.
In the void, Perturabo had integrated the Imperial Fists fleet, treating them as a single component of his vast war machine to drive the engine of war against the Orks.
He was a master of precision. Using cold numbers and rigorous logic, he wove a blueprint for high-efficiency slaughter, crafting victory out of meticulous detail.
His victories were not sudden leaps from 0 to 1, but rather a step-by-step approach along a path paved with countless 0.0001s.
0.0001, 0.0002, 0.0003...
The Lord of Iron calculated every single joule of energy, putting it to its optimal use; he calculated every inch of distance, keeping human warships hovering just beyond the range of the junk ships to kite the Orks with artillery superiority; he calculated every drop of his sons' blood, weighing the gains and losses of every ground assault.
Before reaching the "1" of ultimate victory, Perturabo advanced toward his goal slowly but unwaveringly.
Perhaps he lacked Ferrus Manus's multi-pronged, sweeping power; perhaps he lacked Horus Lupercal's grand charisma and passion, and fell short of Moribas Solas's foresight.
Yet Perturabo had a style all his own: precision.
He finely polished every relevant factor, casting them into gears that he fitted into the war engine with flawless mesh, driving the chariot named Victory forward step by step.
As another skirmish ended, Perturabo looked out through the viewport. Outside, in the distance around the Phalanx, a hundred Ork junk ships were sinking.
The Orks seemed to harbor a unique obsession with a behemoth like the Phalanx.
Keenly capturing and exploiting this obsession, he laid traps that appeared crude on the surface but were lethal in truth, blasting one Ork fleet after another out of the sky. Everything proceeded strictly by the book, steadily progressing toward a favorable outcome.
In the void, the human fleet was steadily picking apart the bloated, monstrous Ork armada.
Perturabo's lead-gray eyes reflected the stars, blinking away the fatigue beneath his gaze as he turned to look toward the far more frantic "hive."
A strange transformation was occurring there: the planet and the warships were blanketed in a green supernatural power, drawing the Orks closer like moths to a flame.
Yet his eyes held only inquiry, not worry—as if that green supernatural force were nothing more than an equation waiting to be solved.
His two brothers, leading tens of thousands of Space Marines, were acting strictly according to plan; no unexpected variables would occur.
Not to mention Blazkowicz was there.
Perturabo was a rational man. He still remembered two months ago on the IV Legion's parade ground, when his brother had pinned him down effortlessly. Possessing that level of absolute martial power, he could come and go as he pleased within the Ork tide.
With him present, even if the Space Marines were routed, the Orks would still be utterly powerless against Dorn.
Amid his thoughts, the starlight in Perturabo's eyes shattered. The Lord of Iron narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing slightly as he muttered in a low, heavy voice: "Horus Lupercal..."
Outside the system, realspace warped violently on a massive scale, like ripples spreading across a calm pond.
Realspace tore open as the eerie glow of the Immaterium surged forth. A massive fleet broke free from the irrational abyss, returning to the material universe.
The side shields of the warships bore a grand emblem: a crescent moon flanking the forward profile of a wolf's head.
The XVI Legion—the Luna Wolves. Responding to the call for aid, they had made the voyage from the Segmentum Ultima to the Segmentum Obscurus.
Inside the war council room of the Vengeance Spirit, Horus Lupercal and the Legion's high command were watching a holographic projection.
As the auspex steadily returned clearer images, the relaxed expressions on their faces vanished entirely, replaced by a sternness never seen before.
Greenskins—enemies documented in Imperial archives that the Luna Wolves had never faced in person—now materialized before their very eyes.
The system was choked with foul war-smoke. Tens of thousands of junk ships swarmed like hideous locusts, running amok and trampling the sacred territory of the Imperium of Man.
The third planet orbiting the star was completely enveloped inside and out by three layers of junk ships, resembling a swarming hornet's nest.
The only sanctuary in the entire system was the Imperial sector established by the Iron Warriors and the Imperial Fists, anchored by the Phalanx.
"Incredible."
At the head of the command dais stood Horus in gleaming white power armor, draped in a heavy pelt of black wolf fur. His eyes opened slightly, flashing with a rare glint of admiration.
He pulled the star map toward himself, tapping his fingers rapidly to highlight key nodes across the star system: "Truly magnificent."
The Wolf Lord's praise captured the full attention of the Legion's high command.
They saw that every location highlighted by the Primarch was a vital transit node in the system, and every single one was guarded by Imperial naval units.
"This..."
Sejanus, a member of the Mournival and Horus's most beloved son, murmured in a voice laced with suspicion and shock.
In his imagination, no one could weave such a massive web while keeping it mobile and maintaining such formidable combat efficiency.
"Do not doubt it," Horus said, tilting his head slightly to cast a warm look at his son. "This must be the work of the brother I have yet to meet—the Master of the IV Legion, Perturabo, Primarch of the Iron Warriors."
As Horus spoke, a hint of pride touched his brow, and an expectant smile crossed his face.
The Wolf Lord looked forward to meeting this brother.
From the tactical layout alone, he saw an incomparably rigorous mind—a rare and powerful gift.
When it came to brothers with exceptional talent, Horus was never stingy with his friendship.
"Why are you so certain it's him?" Abaddon's voice was as fiery as ever, matching his brave and reckless nature. "Could it not be Rogal Dorn?"
"You've never met either of them; how can you tell them apart?"
Ezekyle Abaddon's words immediately ruled out Blazkowicz Novick, and the rest of the Mournival saw no issue with that.
They had interacted with the King of Warriors and glimpsed his tactics through his character; that lord likely preferred surgical, precision strikes.
Such an intricate, system-wide tactical deployment simply did not fit the King of Warriors' nature.
Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, was famous for his sternness and unyielding defensive warfare, though they had never seen his specific operational deployments in person. As for the Primarch who had returned after the Rangdan Xenocides, news was even scarcer—this Ork war was his very first campaign.
"How can you distinguish between them and be so certain of his identity?"
The Mournival and the Legion's senior officers shifted their gazes, looking to their gene-father with eager eyes.
"It is quite simple," Horus said with a subtle smile under the expectant gazes of his sons. "Blazkowicz possesses raw, absolute power. He and his sons will always appear on the most dangerous battlefield."
He swiped his finger, pointing directly at the planet choked by the swarm of junk ships: "He is down there."
"As for Dorn..." Horus raised his right hand, rubbing his chin with his fingertips to feel the rough stubble. "He is a steadfast defender. During the Rangdan Xenocides, he firmly held back the enemy's fierce onslaught in Sector Four."
"However, that brother of mine leans toward static passivity, searching for opportunities within a defensive war before swinging a heavy fist to deliver a decisive blow."
"Thus, if he were the fleet commander, the fleet's tactical formation would lean heavily toward defense."
His left hand swept across the star map, tapping several more critical points. "He would deploy conservatively, keeping at least one defense fleet in reserve to handle contingencies."
"Now, look at how the fleet is spread across the entire theater... It is like..."
Horus paused briefly, searching for the right analogy. "...Like a pocket watch, relying on countless delicate, tiny gears to sustain its movement and achieve its pre-set goal."
Hiss—
A collective gasp echoed through the war council room. The Legion's senior officers fell silent, staring at the slowly rotating star map before them.
They felt utterly dazzled. Even as Space Marines, they could only see the surface of the battle; they were unable to grasp the profound, intricate logic underlying the specific deployment.
Their proud post-human intellect and analytical abilities felt overwhelmed—their minds flooded with data they could not fully process in the face of such interconnected, hyper-complex logical patterns.
As his words faded, the relaxed look on Horus's face melted away, replaced by a growing gravity.
His mind turned to a far deeper issue: fleet command authority.
The battlefield layout made it abundantly clear: Perturabo demanded absolute control. He would not compromise, nor would he share command.
In a campaign orchestrated by this brother, there was no room for a second-in-command or joint authority!
A war machine running with such extreme precision required total obedience to a single, absolute will—it would never tolerate a second voice.
Horus realized that the greatest challenge in this Ork war would not be defeating the Orks, but finding a way to balance power and duty.
After all...
No Primarch was willing to surrender control of his Legion and fleet.
Gazing at the green-tinted star map, Horus narrowed his eyes, his superhuman mind calculating how to handle the impending struggle for command.
He found himself facing a truly thorny problem.
"Communication established."
Amid his thoughts, the comms officer reported. The holographic projection began to flicker with data stream readouts as various security keys passed authorization one after another.
The holographic light resolved, outlining a cold, iron-like figure:
"Brother."
The holographic image flickered, converging into a cold, shadow-cast figure of solid iron. The moment he appeared, even the atmosphere in the war council room grew several degrees chillier.
Horus gazed at the projected light, beholding a man defined by sheer ruthlessness.
Yes, ruthlessness.
From his very first glance at Perturabo, Horus saw a cruel, unfeeling coldness etched across his brother's expressionless—almost rigid—face.
This brother likewise inherited the Emperor Father's grandeur and radiance, yet he did not shine; he was like a block of iron emitting a chilling gloom from a shadowed corner.
His coarse, cool-toned skin was weathered by storm and trial, his face as hard and cold as carved granite. With a sharp, defined jawline and thin, tightly pressed lips, he exuded an unyielding, undeniable sternness.
Horus instinctively compared Perturabo to their other brothers.
Deep within the Lord of Iron's sunken eye sockets, his gaze cut like cold steel, devoid of even a trace of mercy or warmth.
He lacked the breathtaking beauty of the Phoenician, the saintly purity of Sanguinius, and the heroic, imposing martial presence of Blazkowicz—his was a face shaped entirely by iron and unyielding logic, belonging strictly to a craftsman and a siege master.
Taking in the sight of such a Primarch, the Space Marines in the war council room involuntarily straightened their spines.
It was a primal instinct born of fear and an acute sense of threat.
The Primarch's chilling aura was not restrained in the slightest; even across the holographic projection, that icy pressure felt like a frozen hand tightening around the hearts of the Astartes.
Even as post-human warriors forged by the Emperor, they felt their very souls tremble when confronted by this Primarch who looked anything but approachable.
The Legion warriors silently lowered their heads, and the Tech-Priests attending the war council quietly ceased their tasks as well.
The screeching within their logic-driven minds sent their cogitator cores into a flurry of static, warning them not to make any hasty moves.
The long-dormant biological instincts of the Tech-Priests cowered and shivered within their metal hulls before the projected image.
The feeling—
Was as if they had been completely seen through!
In truth, the Tech-Priests' sensation was no mere residual phantom of their lingering flesh; Perturabo had indeed seen through them entirely.
The moment the comms link was established, endless streams of data flooded Perturabo's vision.
He was the Lord of Iron, endowed by the Emperor upon his creation with the extraordinary gift of innate, complete knowledge.
Wherever Perturabo's eyes fell and whatever his mind pondered, the answers would manifest naturally and effortlessly.
The Tech-Priests trembled, every component of their bodies fully laid bare before him; the Space Marines stood rigid, cold sweat soaking the interiors of their power armor.
And then his eyes fell upon Horus Lupercal. As his steel-gray eyes reflected that majestic figure, even the cold, hardened heart of Olympia stalled for a fraction of a second.
He saw not merely a brother, but a blazing sun fallen into the mortal realm—Horus stood there, the majesty of a Primarch and the wild ferocity of the Luna Wolves seamlessly blended, a powerful presence pulsing beneath his bronze skin that felt capable of bowing the stars themselves.
The man smiled with an ardent warmth like flame, completely at odds with Perturabo's own world constructed of cold calculation.
In that moment, Perturabo thought with a silent, bitter pang: So when the Emperor crafted the Primarchs, He had once poured out such scalding favoritism.
---
On the bridge of his super-dreadnought, in a place unseen by Horus, Perturabo's face remained tranquil, yet his lowered hands clenched until his knuckles popped.
For the very first time, a surge of resentment toward the Emperor welled up in his hardened heart—resentment over the sheer unfairness.
Horus was the rising sun, warm and captivating, commanding awe and devotion; he himself was cold iron, his sharp edges cutting others and inspiring innate dread.
When the First Son was returned to the Imperium, the Emperor kept him at His side for thirty years, personally imparting knowledge and teaching him how to view humanity and the universe.
Meanwhile, he was merely the pity-worthy child who "was born knowing."
Because of his gift of innate knowledge, he was deemed to require no instruction and no special care.
His very first assignment upon returning to the Imperium was to lead his gene-sons and fleet out into the galaxy to crush humanity's foes.
Laughable!
Perturabo's face remained void of emotion, yet his inner world churned violently; the word "laughable" bubbled up amid his tempestuous feelings.
He mocked his own obsession; he mocked his own foolishness.
At the very first sight of Horus, realization struck Perturabo like a bolt of lightning: some things simply could not be begged or strived for.
Especially that unique presence in human emotion known as "love."
Take Horus Lupercal—he had done nothing out of the ordinary, yet he was showered with the Emperor's deepest favor and affection.
Whereas Perturabo, to prove his resolve, had ordered a decimation on his Legion's parade grounds—a act that had surely reached the Emperor's ears, yet yielded no response whatsoever.
Not even a reprimand; the Emperor had not even bothers to send an inquiry.
Suddenly, the corner of Perturabo's mouth twitched slightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible curve laden with infinite relief.
He could finally, fully comprehend what Blazkowicz had told him at the spire of the hive city.
The Emperor possessed a hundred parts of love: ten parts were split among His twenty-one sons, while the remaining ninety parts were bestowed upon all of mankind.
Twenty-one sons sharing ten parts of love—how could it ever be distributed fairly?
Besides, love was inherently unfair.
The Emperor could never give equal love to His sons as He did to humanity as a whole.
Consider Blazkowicz—he did not love the Emperor, yet the Emperor loved him; consider Horus—the Emperor poured endless expectations and care into him.
As for the other Primarch brothers—each had their own standing.
Having thought through all this, Perturabo felt a profound, liberating lightheartedness inside, and the icy mask on his face softened slightly.
Just as Blazkowicz had said: rather than bitterly begging for the love of a single person, it was better to earn the love and reverence of all.
His past self had indeed been far too narrow-minded.
With this sudden enlightenment, Perturabo was now completely at peace. From the moment he departed Terra until now, his once-wavering heart had settled into absolute tranquility.
When he looked back at Horus, his gaze was much calmer, the tempestuous waves having settled into a deep, calculating scrutiny.
"Brother?" Horus smiled warmly, his radiant face softening even further with natural, brotherly affection.
In just a few brief seconds, he had watched subtle emotions ripple across Perturabo's face before resolving into a calm, unbothered relief.
Yet along with it, the look in Perturabo's eyes turned even cooler and more distant.
This was not a good sign. Horus greatly admired Perturabo and truly wished to draw closer to this brother.
"The Luna Wolves have responded to the call for aid and arrived in the system," Horus said with a genuine smile, explicitly stating his arrival in response to the request, his deep voice rich with goodwill. "What do you need from me and the Luna Wolves?"
Employing his practiced diplomatic finesse, he lowered his posture and inquired about Perturabo's requirements as the theater commander: "The Legion's warriors are fully equipped and ready for deployment, and the fleet's macro-cannons are loaded."
"My Legion and I will coordinate with you to execute the necessary tactical arrangements."
The words were spoken grandly, yet carried a subtle underlying boundary.
The Luna Wolves were fully willing to cooperate and support the operation, but Horus was also making it clear that he would not hand over command of his Legion and fleet to become a subordinate unit directly micro-managed by another.
Horus's promise and phrasing were steeped in political tact, asserting his own position while subtly resisting integration into Perturabo's chain of command.
Had it been anyone else seeing such an attitude from a Primarch, they would certainly not have pushed for total command authority.
Both sides would take a step back and maintain a high-level cooperative relationship.
Unfortunately for Horus, he was facing Perturabo—a Primarch ruled by absolute logic who could not tolerate a single grain of sand in his operational gears.
Within the holographic display, Perturabo listened to his brother's words without a change in expression, though he smiled inwardly.
From Horus's demeanor, he saw right through the calculated warmth and the subtle resistance.
The intentional warmth from a lowered posture was understandable—they were blood brothers, after all, and should naturally be close.
As for that resistance... Perturabo would not tolerate it for a single second.
"I require full command authority," Perturabo stated flatly, his voice echoing through the comms. "Your fleet and Legion will obey my orders and execute my will without question."
"This is a vast and delicate battlefield where a single move affects the whole. I will not permit any other mind to interfere."
"Including you," Perturabo said, staring at Horus without a single flicker of emotion on his face, as if speaking of something that had nothing to do with him. "My brother."
"You and your fleet shall be integrated into my command structure and obey my orders unconditionally until this war concludes."
As his words fell, a suffocating silence settled over the war council room of the Vengeance Spirit.
To the Luna Wolves, the Lord of Iron's declaration was nothing short of a bolt from the blue.
The chamber fell dead silent—so quiet that a pin drop would echo. The Tech-Priests bowed their hunched bodies even lower, while the Space Marines clenched their fists in suppressed fury.
The magi sealed their machine senses to minimize their presence, silently chanting to the Omnissiah and praying for self-preservation.
As representatives permanently stationed aboard the Luna Wolves' fleet, their role was to solidify the bond between Horus and the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Yet when it came to a clash between Primarch brothers, the Mechanicus had zero desire to get involved.
The Luna Wolves' senior command, however, was a different story. Their respectful expressions froze, and the reactions among the members of the Mournival varied wildly:
Sejanus looked bewildered, Torgaddon aghast, Abaddon indignant, and Aximand utterly disbelieving.
The only thing all four shared was a deep, burning anger hidden behind their eyes!
As the very first Legion to be reunited with its Primarch, the Luna Wolves were unlike any other.
The XVI Legion had never experienced that period of drift or living under the command of another Primarch.
The moment the Great Crusade expanded beyond the Solar System, Horus was found. Under the Emperor's personal tutelage, he took charge of the already famed Luna Wolves.
For the next thirty years, as the sole Legion with a Primarch at its helm, the Luna Wolves harbored a unique and boundless pride.
Throughout the Legion's history, it was almost always brother Legions serving under the command of the Luna Wolves. Never had the Luna Wolves been subsumed into another Legion's chain of command.
That pride was ingrained in their very marrow.
Thus, even in the presence of a Primarch, being placed beneath another filled them with immense contempt—and ignited a towering rage.
Within the deathly silent air, a stifling anger spread like a powder keg stuffed with explosives, ready to blow at the slightest spark!
They turned their eyes to Horus—their gene-father, the glorious Wolf Lord.
Inside the holographic display, Perturabo waited in silence. Yet he took in everyone's expression, a trace of icy disdain flashing through his cold gaze.
The anger of Legion warriors was completely beneath him.
Does a man care about the fury of ants?
In the eyes of a Primarch, the strength of Space Marines was as trivial as insects, barely worth noticing.
Perturabo cared for only one person, his eyes never straying from Horus Lupercal.
He wanted to see how this brother—celebrated for his humility and deeply versed in the political arts of compromise and unity—would handle his blunt, utterly impolite request.
Horus remained silent. A brief look of surprise crossed his face, only to be masked just as quickly.
"My brother," he responded softly, his voice carrying just the right note of heavy gravity. "Forgive me, but I will not surrender command of my Legion."
The holographic light shifted slightly as Perturabo gave a slight nod, signaling for his brother to continue.
"The Luna Wolves are a Legion with a long history. We have forged a distinct, deeply rooted Legion culture and have long been accustomed to our own way of war."
To this day, having persuaded hundreds of worlds into the Imperium's fold through diplomatic negotiation, Horus quickly found the right approach to talk to Perturabo.
"Forcing us abruptly into your operational system—" Hesitation surfaced on his radiant face, and a touch of concern colored his deep, resonant voice. "—will impair the Legion's combat effectiveness and cause unnecessary casualties."
With that, Horus quietly observed the holographic projection, hoping to glean some information from his brother's expressionless face.
He held nothing back. The underlying meaning was clear: the Legion would not obey an outsider's command, and tactics alien to their own doctrines would lead to avoidable losses outside their system.
To put it even more bluntly: he did not trust Perturabo, and he would not hand over command.
From the combat network constructed of cold logic, Horus had witnessed absolute rationality and efficiency. Beyond admiration, he felt a slight chill of awe.
Under absolute logic, anything could be sacrificed for victory.
Horus did not want the Luna Wolves to become a mere number on a casualty ledger.
To preserve his own sons in the past, he had deceitfully used the "Grey Claws," treating warriors of other Legions as cannon fodder.
No one understood better than he just how casually non-lineage Astartes could be expended.
If he surrendered command, the Luna Wolves would be reduced to replaceable, consumable cogs in his brother's war machine.
Having stated his position, Horus stared at his brother for a long time, but failed to draw a single scrap of information from any shift in his expression.
The Lord of Iron truly lived up to his title.
Cold and rigid, his face gave away no psychological shifts whatsoever.
Perturabo felt no surprise upon hearing his brother's refusal; Horus's pushback was entirely within his calculations.
A Primarch's protective hold and absolute sway over his own lineage could not be undone with a few words.
Had a brother Primarch demanded command of the Iron Warriors, Perturabo himself would have deliberated at length before ultimately rejecting it.
Securing command over a Legion anchored by its Primarch was fraught with immense difficulty.
If not for a bit of deception, even Dorn would not have surrendered command so easily.
"I understand," Perturabo said with a slight nod, his voice low and icy, devoid of any warmth.
He raised his hand and tapped a control, transmitting a dataset to the Luna Wolves. "Here is the operational plan."
As the data transferred, the holographic projection on the command dais dissolved and reassembled, displaying the relevant theater plan.
New coordinates and tactical vectors materialized on the star map. Horus's face gradually darkened, his dark-gold eyes piercing through the projection to glare at his brother's still-blank face.
The Mournival and the Legion's high command looked equally grim.
"You foresaw this?" The Wolf Lord narrowed his eyes, suppressing the anger rising in his chest. "You predicted my refusal."
The plan on the star map was simple, yet it was far from what he currently wanted.
Perturabo had divided the star system into two halves. One half was assigned to the joint fleet to continue their current operations; the other half was handed entirely to the Luna Wolves, with Perturabo stepping back completely to let Horus act with total operational freedom.
Such an arrangement was completely unexpected—and infuriating—to Horus!
A deployment scheme so meticulously crafted could never have been a spur-of-the-moment draft.
Long before the reinforcement fleet had even arrived, Perturabo had already prepared multiple contingency plans, anticipating every possible branch.
His inquiry and statement were never meant as a negotiation or a seek for compromise—they were merely a branch test to select a pre-designed path based on the response.
Horus felt like a ridiculous clown, outmaneuvered by a brother he had never even met, his every reaction pre-scripted in a simulation.
"Brother," Perturabo admitted openly without denying it. "A campaign of this magnitude leaves no room for error."
"I must prepare multiple contingencies to prevent any unexpected variables from disrupting the campaign's progress."
"Furthermore," Perturabo stared at Horus, his unblinking, hollow gaze making the latter's skin crawl, "we have no time to argue."
The moment his words faded, the hololith flickered.
In less than a minute since the Luna Wolves entered realspace, the Ork fleet had detected the newly arrived enemy and detached over a thousand junk ships to intercept them.
With the battle situation shifting right before their eyes, Horus closed his eyes and took a deep breath: "I agree to take control of the northern hemisphere of the system. You will handle the southern half."
"Additionally, I will send Ezekyle Abaddon leading the Justaerin Terminators and Luna Wolves warriors to assist you in assaulting the xenos coalition's capital world."
"No—" Perturabo began to refuse, but abruptly cut himself off.
He looked at the irritable Space Marine with the pointed topknot and Terminator armor, and a brilliant idea suddenly struck him.
The capital world of the xenos coalition possessed formidable defenses; eighty thousand Iron Warriors had been unable to crack it for a long time.
Now, a seemingly dim-witted mine-sweeper carrying elite troops was offering himself on a silver platter—how could he possibly refuse?
"Very well." Thinking of what was to come, Perturabo smiled.
That sudden, blooming smile fell upon Horus and the Luna Wolves like something dark and terrifying—as if cold iron was being violently twisted out of shape, carrying a brutal promise of tearing flesh to shreds.
Let alone the Space Marines, even Horus felt a sharp chill creep up his spine at the sight of that horrific smile.
Abaddon, who bore the direct brunt of that smile, fared even worse. His body lost control, trembling uncontrollably in a cold shudder.
The sudden cold sweat even activated his power armor's perspiration recycling system.
"Reinforcements will assemble here," Perturabo said, retracting his smile in the very next instant as if nothing had happened, pointing toward the xenos capital. "I look forward to seeing how the Luna Wolves—one of the Imperium's premier assault Legions—will perform."
Horus did not answer. He nodded in silence and cut the holographic feed on his own end.
In the war council room, with the oppressive aura of the second Primarch gone, the atmosphere abruptly loosened, and the frozen air began to flow once more.
"Ezekyle Abaddon," Horus called out softly to his son, a trace of concern clouding his brow as he gave an extraordinarily stern warning: "Act with caution. Do not be impulsive."
In truth, Horus was feeling a pang of regret inside.
Recalling Perturabo's eerie smile made him feel an unbearable sense of dread.
Unfortunately, the word of a Primarch was binding; what was spoken could not be taken back.
All he could do now was pray that Perturabo was simply terrible at smiling and had twisted what was meant as a friendly gesture into that hideous mask.
"I understand," Abaddon said, the rage on his face gone, replaced by lingering fear as his chest heaved in unease.
The Lord of Iron's sudden smile had nearly brought him to his knees, his mind and body screaming in terror.
"I will be careful and obey every order from the Lord of Iron," he promised once more, his tone weighted with solemn resolve.
Horus nodded to him, then leaned over the holographic table and said, "Capitalize on our intelligence advantage and execute standard fleet combat procedures."
"My stern brother... the intelligence he provided should be flawless."
"Understood!" the Legion's high command shouted in unison, immediately shifting into combat mode to begin analyzing the Lord of Iron's intelligence in depth.
"In the name of the Lupercal, the Luna Wolves enter the fray!"
A massive fleet of three hundred capital ships broke its tight cruising formation, fanning out into a crescent-shaped advance.
"Nova Cannon loading sequence initiated."
Within the joint fleet, several Mechanicus-modified cruisers began loading Nova Cannon warheads.
Tech-Priests chanted prayers to the Machine God as hundreds of servitors worked in unison, hauling a fifty-meter-diameter, ultra-massive shell into the gravitational accelerator.
"Praise be to the Machine God, the mechanical soul of the cosmos!
Gather energy, roar within the sacred coils, and may this vessel of destruction bear Your wrath and will."
Amidst the Tech-Priests' incantations, the lights across the modified cruisers suddenly went dark. All shipboard power was forcibly diverted to the engines and the Nova Cannons.
"Praise the Omnissiah!"
Servitors fell to their knees and shouted, their earnest blessings converging into a simple, honest hymn—though they understood no complex litanies, their devotion was all the more pure.
"Heart of plasma, burning within the deep breach;
Activate, focus, transform into the pure light of ruin!
This is the communion of sacred oil and code, a scorching star blooming in the endless void!"
The ships shuddered subtly as the Nova Cannons at their bows awoke from their slumber, the gravitational accelerators greedily absorbing every drop of power.
The Nova Cannon—a shipborne super-weapon that was the pride of the Adeptus Mechanicus—was regarded as the physical manifestation of the Omnissiah's roar.
The gravitational accelerator propelled the ultra-heavy shell to ninety-nine percent the speed of light, granting it relativistic, apocalyptic kinetic energy. Its destructive capability was enough to pale the stars themselves.
"In the name of the Omnissiah, unleash!" absolute fanaticism bled through the mechanical Magos's rasping, steady voice as he raised his cog-toothed power axe high.
BOOM!
A muffled, colossal thud erupted through the vacuum of space. The cruisers halted abruptly as the immense recoil of the Nova Cannons shot straight through their keels, causing the speed of the entire fleet to drop instantly.
Such was the harsh requirement of the Nova Cannon: only capital ships like battleships and heavy cruisers could withstand its massive recoil.
Had it been a light cruiser or a frigate, the force would have shattered its adamantium keel into powder, causing the vessel to disintegrate on the spot!
Several streaks of light sliced through the void, trailing long, vivid azure wakes behind them.
Travelling at near-light speed, the relativistic projectiles crossed sixteen light-minutes of vacuum before detonating directly inside the Ork junk fleet!
The explosion was nothing short of catastrophic. The plasma warheads slammed into the enemy formation with world-ending momentum, bursting into blue-white plasma spheres tens of thousands of kilometers wide!
With the Nova Cannons firing in unison, it looked as though several suns had risen in this nameless star system.
Three shells detonated in a triangular pattern. The giant plasma spheres instantly swallowed hundreds of Ork junk ships.
"Witness the birth of these novae! The enemy shall be reduced to nothingness in a feast of light and heat!"
Inside the modified cruiser, the Magos's chanting dispelled the darkness as the lights flickered back to life, casting an eerie glow on his pale, fanatical face beneath his hood.
He looked at the battle damage report with great satisfaction: enemy fleet casualties had reached a staggering seventy percent!
The extraordinary power of the Nova Cannons had reached across the entire star system, striking the Ork fleet at the center all the way from the system's edge to achieve a tremendous victory.
Such an ultra-long-range strike of utter annihilation was living proof of the Machine God's might!
---
On the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, Horus watched the short-lived plasma spheres flare up in space for a mere second before vanishing, a cold gleam passing through his eyes.
Nova Cannons.
Experimental Mechanicus shipborne weapons, designed as strategic ultra-long-range artillery to inflict catastrophic damage on enemy fleets.
Currently, within the entire Imperium, only vessels belonging to the Luna Wolves, the Iron Hands, and the Mechanicus were equipped with such strategic assets.
Horus was quite satisfied with these experimental Nova Cannons.
Though their accuracy was average, they could not be used at close range, and they required large capital ships to carry them, these limitations and flaws could not overshadow their irreplaceable tactical value—unmatched destructive power.
He had witnessed it with his own eyes: plasma spheres comparable to the core of a star had devoured those dozen-kilometer-long Ork junk ships, vaporizing them in an instant.
Judging purely by the results, the raw, absolute power of the Nova Cannon had earned the Lupercal's favor.
"Load second salvo for the Nova Cannons."
Horus issued the command, his fingers tapping rapidly across the holographic star map. "Fleet, disperse and prepare to take over the evacuation zone from friendly forces."
"Centering on Planet Three, the Luna Wolves and Mechanicus cruisers will take control of operations in the northern hemisphere of the system."
"Ezekyle Abaddon," he opened a comm link to the landers and spoke to the Master of the Justaerin, "you may depart now."
A series of orders was dispatched. The fleet expanded outward from its crescent formation, and several landers broke away from the rear, making short-range intra-system jumps toward the southern hemisphere of the system.
---
On the bridge of the super-dreadnought, Perturabo noticed the fleeting plasma spheres and quickly deduced their underlying mechanics.
He knit his brows, harboring a rather negative view toward such highly unstable weaponry.
Though the results seemed impressive on the surface, according to data processed by the AI, all three shells had missed their target points by an average of over two thousand kilometers.
The severe deviation in trajectory and detonation points led to a flawed outcome.
What should have been ninety-five percent destruction of the Ork fleet, wiping out their assault echelon in one fell swoop, ended up achieving only seventy percent.
And the remaining twenty-five percent of the Ork fleet was bound to become a new variable.
As survivors, the Orks would not fall back and regroup like human forces; they would simply keep barreling forward, unleashing a fresh tide of blood and terror.
Furthermore, making such a massive commotion had caused other Ork fleets roaming the system to begin converging toward the Luna Wolves.
Even the massive "hive" on Planet Three had dispatched a portion of its warships to press on with their assault operations.
Perturabo looked at the holographic star map and let out a sinister chuckle.
The Ork fleet was no longer staying concentrated; they had split into numerous smaller task forces and begun surrounding the Luna Wolves.
Horus had still underestimated the Orks. By making such a grand show of using strategic-scale weapons, he had turned himself into the center of attention.
He failed to realize that this seemingly barbaric warrior race possessed an extraordinarily terrifying capacity to learn.
They knew the humans possessed weapons of immense power; though they didn't yet understand how they worked, they had already begun dispersing their fleets to avoid being wiped out in a single blow.
"Hmph!" Perturabo snorted, paying no further mind to Horus or the Luna Wolves.
His train of thought flowed through the neural links and sank into the flagship's command core, initiating the redeployment of the Phalanx back toward the central sector of the southern hemisphere.
He directed the fleet withdrawing from the northern hemisphere into pre-established defensive positions.
The Imperial Fists fleet, unaware of the friction between the Primarchs, chose to obey orders, vacating the northern hemisphere and heading toward their designated assembly points.
In just ten seconds, Perturabo had completed the fleet's redeployment.
He turned his attention to the star's fifth orbit—the capital world of the xenos coalition.
To this day, this world, steeped in alien corruption, still stood amidst the flames of war.
In the half-month since the Iron Warriors' invasion began, they had cleared several satellite cities and were currently besieging the central capital of the xenos coalition.
It was a colossal megacity situated on the planet's central plains, straddling the equator and connecting three continents.
To the west lay an oceanic archipelago, to the east stretched vast grasslands; to the north rested snow-capped mountain ranges, and to the south sprawled tropical rainforests.
Through two weeks of continuous orbital bombardment paired with heavy siege engines, the Iron Warriors had thoroughly pulverized the outer and middle districts. Now, they were besieging the true inner core.
Standing before the Legion was a three-hundred-meter-tall fortress wall and an extremely consolidated defensive force.
The three primary xenos species were huddling inside the city.
The Khrave had erected psychokinetic barriers, the Rangdan maintained continent-scale energy shields, and the Worm-men contributed pale-green bio-fields.
Protected by these stacked, multi-layered shields and reinforced by heavy anti-orbital weapons within the inner city, orbital bombardment was rendered entirely ineffective, forcing the ground troops into a siege of attrition.