Chapter 130: The Divine Barrage
Once the shells were moved into position, they weren't simply shoved into the breeches.
Each round was the size of a ground-car, resting on a reinforced plasteel rack. The Canon-Preceptor, flanked by a dozen chanting acolytes, began the Ritual of the Sanctified Ballistics. They circled the massive iron slugs, swinging censers that filled the vaulted chamber with a thick, choking fog of sacred incense.
As the litanies reached a crescendo, several novices produced quills and pots of sanctified ink, frantically scribbling holy wards and anti-daemon hexes directly onto the metal casings. Red votive candles were melted onto the shells' noses, their small flames flickering against the cold steel.
The "Blessing" lasted over an hour. By the time they were finished, the shells were covered in a chaotic web of golden script and dripping wax.
The Canon-Preceptor stepped forward, holding a final Purity Seal. He used the flame of a candle to soften the wax on the back of the parchment and pressed it firmly onto the leading edge of the first shell.
"By the Will of the Master of Mankind," the Canon bellowed, his voice echoing through the loading bay, "I task thee with a holy burden! Purge the Unclean! Sunder the rot! Return this soil to the light of Terra!"
With the ritual complete, the clergy stepped back. Major Breylin issued a sharp command. Five hundred labor-thralls, straining until their veins bulged, hauled on the chains to slide the ten-ton "Gospel" into the waiting breech.
A thunderous mechanical roar followed as the block-sized breech-lock cycled shut. The holy ordinance was primed.
Kian watched the process with a mix of awe and mounting frustration. The sheer, grinding inefficiency of the Imperial Machine was a constant headache. Four hours to prep three shots, Kian thought. In the 3k era, we'd have finished the war by now.
But the wait was finally over. Major Breylin led Kian and the Canon up to an observation spire—a high-altitude balcony shielded by reinforced glass.
Kian leaned against the railing, lighting a Lho-stick as he looked out. From this height—nearly a kilometer above the surface—the entire continent was spread out beneath him. He could see the PDF encampments, the flickering fires of the No-Man's Land, and the dark, vast carpet of the northern forests.
Major Breylin checked his chrono. "The Machine Spirits are satiated. Firing sequence begins in ten seconds. 10... 9... 8..."
The Canon-Preceptor raised his hands, his voice a fanatical roar. "LET THE HERETIC TASTE THE WRATH OF THE THRONE! LET THE DIVINE FIRE CONSUME THE FILTH!!"
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
The entire Hive City shuddered. Kian felt the floor vibrate so violently he thought the spire was collapsing. Three tongues of white-hot flame, each a hundred meters long, erupted from the Hive's walls. The sound wasn't just noise; it was a physical shockwave that left Kian's ears ringing despite his headset.
He squinted toward the North, trying to see the impact. But Equine Reach was 150 kilometers away—too far to see anything but a faint, orange glow on the horizon seconds later.
"Did we hit it?" Kian asked, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.
Major Breylin didn't look at his displays. He answered with the cold certainty of a man who commanded gods of iron. "It doesn't matter if we scored a direct hit. Those were Incineration Rounds—packed with a multi-stage chemical promethium agent.
"The shells are timed to detonate five hundred meters above the target, spraying liquid fire across a one-kilometer radius. That fire doesn't just burn wood; it burns the soil, the sand, and the very air. If anything organic was left in that village, it is now a carbon shadow. The forest fire will handle the rest."
Kian let out a low whistle. Total biological erasure.
But as he watched the smoke clear from the barrels, a nagging question surfaced. If the Hive had hundreds of these batteries, why hadn't the Governor used them to end the rebellion years ago? A single afternoon of macro-cannon fire could have turned every rebel warren into a glass crater.
The stalemate was intentional. The Governor was playing a game of "Managed Chaos," and Kian was starting to realize he was just a very small piece on a very large board.
A few cycles later, back in the Underhive.
Kian was managing his newest batch of amasec when his long-range vox crackled to life. It was Major Rudolphson, and the man sounded like he was on the verge of a systemic cardiac arrest.
"Voss! Get your backside up to the camp! Now!"
"What's the crisis, Rudy? Did you run out of booze?"
"Shut up and listen! A High Command delegation just arrived! A Brigadier General from the Sector High Command is in my office. He's seen the reports on the Equine Reach and the Winchester raid. He's calling for an audit of the 'specialist' who provided the intel. He wants to see the man with the Corporal's stripes!"
Kian felt a spike of adrenaline. A General? That was several tiers above his current paygrade.
He didn't hesitate. He donned his crispest PDF fatigues, fixed his Corporal boards, and drove his survey crawler to the surface.
When he entered Rudolphson's battalion HQ, he realized the Major hadn't been exaggerating. The camp was swarming with "True Soldiers." He saw a platoon of Honor Guards in full high-gloss Carapace armor, armed with Master-crafted Lasguns. These weren't local drunks; these were Spire-born killers.
Kian parked his crawler and was immediately intercepted by Rudolphson, who looked like he'd been sweating through his uniform for hours.
"Throne's blood, Voss! What have you done? Why is a General asking for a two-bit Corporal from the Sump?!"
Kian smirked, adjusting his collar. "Relax, Rudy. The Canon-Preceptor probably gave me a five-star review. I'm here for my medals."
Rudolphson grabbed Kian's arm, his eyes wide with terror. "You idiot! You're a ghost! Your ID is a forgery! If that General decides to run a deep-scan on your service record, we're both going to be hanging from a gibbet by sunset!"
Kian patted the Major's shoulder, then gave his "American-tier" firm backside a motivating slap.
"Buck up, Major! Remember the rules of the game: Fortune favors the bold, and the bigger the lie, the more they believe it.
Now stand aside and watch me work."
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