War Hammer: The reality Bender Chapter 40 40: Old Hound of Armageddon

This was absolutely staggering.

As Burke watched the majestic forms of the Astartes continuously battling, his reverence deepened, and his excitent beca impossible to suppress.

However, his thoughts were swiftly interrupted by the voice of his squadmate.

The one-eyed designated marksman of Burke's squad leaned over, nudging him sharply with an elbow.

When a confused Burke turned to look, the marksman simply pointed a finger decisively in a certain direction, indicating he should look that way.

The mont Burke turned his head and locked his gaze on that spot, his breath caught in his throat.

Amidst the rolling green tide, a Living Saint with pure white wings, radiating a soft, holy golden aura, soared through the sky. A continuous spray of blood erupted from the enemy ranks below her, and countless Greenskin heads spun into the air in tandem with her ascents and dives.

On another flank, a young woman crackling with psionic energy—an entity whose psychic might appeared more than ten tis greater than any psyker Burke had ever known—was indiscriminately unleashing branching bolts of psychic lightning into the surrounding Ork horde. With every blinding flash, both Ork Boyz and Nobz were indiscriminately reduced to charred, smoking husks.

But what truly chilled Burke to the bone was the symbol prominently emblazoned upon the female psyker's garnts: the unmistakable Rosette of the Inquisition.

Burke fell utterly silent.

However, this already profoundly absurd spectacle was far from over.

From yet another sector of the battlefield ca the deafening clamor of combat. A figure clad in undeniably magnificent golden power armor was weaving through the carnage at a velocity that even a hardened Astra Militarum veteran like Burke found impossible to track. Everywhere this golden blur passed, it left a wake of absolute devastation and dismbered corpses.

Having once travelled to Holy Terra to receive a comndation from the Departnto Munitorum, Burke could vaguely recognize the aesthetic of that armor. It was identical to the golden plate worn by the Custodes standing vigil at the gates of the Imperial Palace.

"Haha."

For so inexplicable reason, Burke suddenly let out a laugh of sheer resignation.

Seeing his sergeant's bizarre reaction, the previously ecstatic one-eyed marksman froze, unable to stop himself from asking:

"Burke, what's wrong with you?"

Burke still didn't respond. He simply reached in silently, pulled out the Imperial Guard dog tags hanging around his neck, and without a single word, opened his mouth and bit down hard on the tal tags.

The one-eyed man: "Huh?"

...

The battle had concluded.

Even the most draconian and hyper-critical commander would have to concede that this was undoubtedly a glorious victory.

The Greenskins had been slaughtered so thoroughly that their courage completely shattered. They broke and fled in every conceivable direction, scattering across the hills and plains, completely incapable of mounting a cohesive counter-attack for the foreseeable future.

Conversely, the Imperial forces suffered practically negligible casualties. At the onset of the engagent, the soldiers of the Armageddon Steel Legion had taken shelter within highly secure artillery bunkers, allowing the vast majority to survive the opening bombardnt. And once the reinforcents dropped into the fray, the Ork lines rapidly collapsed.

Seeing that the Greenskins had completely scattered, losing their dense formations and drastically reducing the efficiency of the slaughter, Rowan withdrew from the frontline, leaving only the Rubric Astartes to continue the hunt.

After transmitting a recall order to gather the rest of his squad, the four of them walked toward the Astra Militarum trench lines together.

Earlier, Rowan had kept the severed head of the Ork Warboss for a reason far beyond re psychological intimidation.

He repeated his previous trick, utilizing his reality-bending dominion to extract actionable intelligence from the dead brain, thereby gaining a rough understanding of this specific Waaagh!'s origins.

This planet was designated by the Imperium as the World of Valos. This particular Greenskin infestation originated deep within the underhive of one of the planet's primary Hive Cities.

It was unknown which absolute genius had introduced Ork spores into such a perfect natural incubator, but once this Ork tribe reached critical mass, they rapidly overran the Hive City, seized control, and began expanding outward in an attempt to conquer the remaining Hive Cities.

Over the past several days, this specific regint of the Armageddon Steel Legion had been engaged in continuous combat with the Greenskins. In open field engagents, they hadn't lost a single battle, successfully repelling every Ork offensive.

However, constrained by the rigid doctrines of the Codex Astra Militarum, as a dedicated armored regint, they lacked the sufficient siege artillery and heavy ordnance required to breach a fortified Hive City. Thus, the situation devolved into an awkward stalemate.

The Greenskins couldn't break out, and the Imperial Guard couldn't break in.

"This is sowhat problematic..."

Rowan pondered slowly as he walked.

If he were dealing with a Warboss from any other clan, this situation would be infinitely simpler.

He would only need to approach the periter of the Hive City, set up a loud-hailer, and hurl a stream of profanity into the hive—sothing along the lines of, "Da Warboss in dere is a cowardly purple Grot who ain't even got da zoggin' guts to co out and fight one-on-one!"

Based on Rowan's understanding of Ork psychology, the Warboss would be absolutely incapable of tolerating such a slight. He would proactively lead a massive charge out of the city, intending to personally tear the humie who insulted him limb from limb.

As long as the enemy ca out into the open, the problem was solved.

With Rowan's current level of power, unless the Warboss was an Ancient Krork Warlord from the War of the Beast era capable of fighting a Primarch to a standstill, the Ork was as good as dead.

But the current situation involved the Blood Axe Clan—the ultimate anomalies among the Greenskins. That trick likely wouldn't work.

Rather than charging out for an honorable duel, the enemy Warboss would probably prefer to dump two full payloads of artillery fire onto the source of the voice, solving the problem by blowing the insulting humie to ash in a very un-Orky manner.

After mulling it over and discussing it with the others, Rowan ruled out two other tactical options.

Utilizing the strike cruiser for an orbital bombardnt was fundantally unfeasible. The Hive City was protected by a Bastion-class Void Shield generator imported from Vigilus, as well as an integrated plasma orbital-defense platform.

Because the Ork infestation erupted from within the city, these planetary defenses had proven useless during the initial fall, and had instead been captured and repurposed by the xenos.

As for executing a drop-pod insertion directly into the heart of the Hive City and fighting their way through millions of Orks from the inside out... that plan was unanimously vetoed by the entire group.

The sheer lethality of such an operation was obvious to everyone. Furthermore, Rowan's fundantal vulnerability was glaringly apparent, and in the claustrophobic chaos of urban warfare, absolutely anything could happen.

Rowan had zero desire to accidentally catch a stray piece of high-velocity shrapnel through the abdon and die a completely anti-climactic death.

That would be far too grimdark a punchline.

Ultimately, they arrived at a singular conclusion.

"We still need to establish contact with this Astra Militarum regint. Only through coordinated action can we efficiently eradicate the xenos."

"My Lords, the commander of our regint is stationed just ahead," the Guardsman who had volunteered to guide Rowan's group said, his voice laced with profound trepidation.

"Thank you."

Rowan nodded politely in gratitude, only to be t with a look of utter, stupefied shock from the soldier.

Right then.

Rowan shook his head and shifted his attention to the vehicle parked before him... a super-heavy tank.

It was an Astra Militarum Baneblade. Its exterior was encased in matte black steel that glinted with a cold, nacing luster. The spikes adorning its turret resembled dark obelisks, while the cavernous maw of its primary macro-cannon and the staggered array of secondary weapon systems made it look like a terrifying instrunt of slaughter dredged up from the abyss.

Why does this thing look vaguely familiar?

Rowan felt a tinge of curiosity, narrowing his eyes as he studied it intently.

However, before he could recall where he had seen it, a man vaulted from the rear hatch of the tank, landing solidly on the dirt.

He was clad in the heavy greatcoat of an Imperial Commissar, topped with a black-and-red peaked cap. The gilded filigree around the brim entwined a prominent skull icon, accentuating his chiseled, stoic features. His tightly pursed lips looked like a blade forged in frost.

The Commissar stood fully upright, casting his gaze upon Rowan.

"I am Commissar Sebastian Yarrick, Colonel of the Armageddon Steel Legion, 252nd Regint."

"State your identities."

--------------------------

Read 30 chapters ahead on Patreon!

spatreon/goatmama