The mont Rowan finished speaking, the fragile string known as 'sanity' completely snapped within Yarrick's mind.
A Rosarius was literally a holy amulet. Despite its diminutive size, it housed an exceptionally powerful conversion-field generator capable of shielding the wearer from lethal strikes.
Its defensive capabilities were robust enough to ensure the wearer's survival even when subjected to direct hits from plasma weaponry.
Generally speaking, such wargear was exclusively found on individuals of the highest echelons of Imperial authority—such as high-ranking cardinals of the Ministorum, Canonesses of the Adepta Sororitas, Lord Inquisitors, and Space Marine Chaplains.
Yarrick could swear on the Golden Throne that prior to today, he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that the quantity of such legendary, hyper-rare relics could be asured in the tens of thousands.
Rowan, on the other hand, remained entirely emotionally stable regarding the matter.
This was nothing.
His reality-bending dominion didn't care about the rarity of the constituent materials or the staggering complexity of the engineering design when fabricating objects. It operated on a far more primal, brute-force tric: volu and mass.
This constraint was precisely why Rowan currently lacked the ontological density to simply snap his fingers and materialize a Gloriana-class Battleship out of thin air.
But sothing as small and compact as a Rosarius? He could literally mass-produce a mountain of them on a whim.
What's that? You say the materials are ultra-rare, the micro-components are too delicate, and mass production is functionally impossible?
I can't hear you. Go argue with my reality-bending dominion.
"These... we... truly..."
Yarrick managed to force a few syllables through his violently constricting throat, but he entirely failed to formulate a coherent sentence.
His brain had completely shut down regarding the question of who this man truly was.
"Well? Backed by this level of logistical support, are you confident in your regint's ability to successfully breach and conquer the fallen Hive City?" Rowan inquired.
"Absolutely. You have my solemn oath."
Yarrick's features hardened into an expression of absolute resolve. "At this mont, I possess unwavering certainty."
Was this a joke?
Provided with tactical conditions so absurdly favorable that he wouldn't have dared dream of them, if he still failed to complete the objective, he might as well strip himself of his rank. At that point, drawing his bolt pistol and putting a mass-reactive round through his own temple would be the simpler, more direct solution.
At least that way, he wouldn't waste any more of the Imperium's resources.
"Excellent. However, I assu you will require an operational window to properly integrate this heavy armor into your regint and familiarize your crews with the new wargear."
Rowan nodded, then added, "Once the opportune mont arrives, you may initiate the assault."
"The opportune mont?"
Hearing terminology directly related to military strategy, Yarrick's consciousness violently snapped out of its shock-induced stupor.
What did he an?
Just as he was about to ask, a sudden realization struck his mind like a thunderbolt.
Yarrick suddenly noticed a glaring detail he had previously overlooked.
"The psyker... the Inquisitor is missing. Don't tell ..."
"Your deduction is correct."
Rowan nodded.
"I have assigned her a specialized infiltration mission. She is currently slipping into the Hive City to sabotage the Ork artillery batteries stationed within the lower levels."
"If she successfully neutralizes their indirect-fire capabilities, we can execute a rapid armored thrust directly into the Hive City, suffering absolutely zero attrition on the approach."
"A sound strategy, but a highly perilous undertaking."
Yarrick frowned deeply. "With all due respect, our tactical advantage is already overwhelming. There is no strategic necessity to mandate an Inquisitor to undertake such a suicidal risk."
"Rest assured, you are entirely unaware of her true capabilities. Furthermore, her operational directive is strictly limited to neutralizing the artillery emplacents; she is not tasked with assassinating the Warboss."
Rowan was highly confident in this assessnt. "I have absolute faith that Cybia will execute this mission flawlessly."
...
Deep within the Hive City.
Cybia, gripping her force sword, strolled casually down a massive, steel-forged thoroughfare.
Scanning her surroundings, she observed that the majestic, gothic architecture of the Imperium had been entirely subjugated by crude, brutalist Ork designs. The sacred icons of the Ministorum, the Imperial Aquila, and various other insignias had been violently torn down or aggressively defaced. The teeming throngs of Imperial citizenry had vanished, replaced by endless mobs of Ork Boyz patrolling the streets, brandishing ramshackle weaponry and continuously roaring in exhilaration.
The reason she remained utterly undetected was the faint, suffocating veil of black mist entirely shrouding her physical form.
This was the psychic discipline known as Nightshroud—an exceptionally potent cloaking art.
Through the manipulation of Warp energies, the psyker wove a flowing mantle of living shadow around themselves and their allies, rendering them fundantally imperceptible to enemy senses.
Truth be told, prior to this operation, Cybia had never actually learned this specific discipline.
She had simply recalled the specific warp-signatures generated by other psykers utilizing the technique, and within ten minutes, she had flawlessly replicated and mastered it.
And this miraculous feat was entirely attributable to the staggering, divine power of the Emperor's Covenant-bearer she served.
That power—that reality-bending dominion which remained entirely incomprehensible to her seasoned Inquisitorial mind—had violently subjugated the volatile energies of the Warp. Under his influence, the Immaterium flowed as smoothly and effortlessly as her own limbs.
This level of absolute control was sothing she wouldn't have dared dream of previously, yet now, it was her irrefutable reality.
The Inquisitor wove through the steel jungle, nimbly slipping past the lumbering forms of the Greenskins. Relying on her psychic auspex, she effortlessly plotted a route that entirely bypassed any elite Ork units capable of piercing her psychic veil.
Soon, guided by the currents of the Warp, Cybia arrived at the periter of a massive, reinforced steel plaza.
Arrayed across the plaza were rows upon rows of massive, brutally thick artillery barrels pointing skyward—ordnance so bizarrely constructed that even an Inquisitor couldn't identify their class. Swarming around these guns were mobs of kboyz, frantically calibrating targeting arrays and hamring on various chanisms.
Furthermore, the periter of this artillery battery was heavily patrolled by Ork sentries. The density and discipline of their patrol routes entirely contradicted the chaotic nature of Greenskins; even a seasoned human commander would be impressed by the security.
Naturally, Cybia entirely ignored all of this.
She began to formulate a tactical plan.
She possessed the raw power to unleash an Alpha-class psychic maelstrom right here and now, effortlessly reducing the entire battery to molten slag.
However, executing such a blatant maneuver would instantaneously expose her presence, drawing the wrath of the entire Hive City down upon her. In such a scenario, Cybia would be forced to execute an ergency warp-translation to evacuate the combat zone.
But neutralizing a single artillery battery was insufficient.
Intelligence indicated multiple batteries were distributed across the Hive City. Her primary objective was to cripple the Greenskins' indirect-fire capabilities to the maximum extent possible.
Therefore, she needed to deploy a sabotage thod that would trigger localized chaos without imdiately raising high-level alarms.
Fortunately, the Inquisitor had co prepared.
Psychic light flared within Cybia's eyes, two brilliant flashes of azure illuminating the shadows for a microsecond.
A short distance away, an Ork Boy lazily cradling a heavy shoota suddenly went rigid, his eyes blowing wide as identical azure light erupted from his pupils.
He had been successfully dominated.
Operating under absolute telepathic control, the Ork Boy stiffly and chanically shambled into an isolated, shadowed alcove. Cybia stepped through the Nightshroud, appearing directly before him, and psychically commanded him to open his maw.
In the next mont, the Inquisitor retrieved an object from her coat pocket.
It was an intricately decorated tin can, emblazoned with a line of bold, crimson text:
[Grox-at Rations. Departnto Munitorum Issue.]
[WARNING: Must be subjected to intense thermal sterilization (open fla) for a minimum of 96 hours prior to consumption. The Departnto Munitorum assus zero liability for fatalities resulting from improper preparation.]
She utilized invisible telekinetic force to violently shear the lid off the can, and with practiced swiftness, shoved the raw grox-at directly into the Ork Boy's mouth.
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