"Report: From the Lucifer Black—their combat casualties have exceeded 30%. There are massive numbers of combat injuries and non-combat casualties, the front lines are severely fragnted, and the defensive network has developed gaps."
"Report: Traces of cultist activity have been discovered at logistics bases and even within the Imperial Palace. They are not only leaving eerie symbols everywhere but have also sabotaged several communication lines, causing a degree of chaos and loss of supplies."
"Report: Inquisitor Cordelia Fairchild is suspected of treason. She has escaped the surveillance of the Adeptus Custodes. Her Stormus Tempestus troops have not only appeared on the front lines, but so mbers have blended into Chaos cults, acting in coordination with the enemy."
"Report: Urgent ssage from Aeronautica Imperialis—nurous airfields have been maliciously sabotaged. Mutants driven mad by Chaos are surging against their defensive lines like a tide, and defender casualties continue to rise."
The Command Center.
Within bands of light invisible to the naked eye, this temporary command hub was performing high-efficiency data reception and feedback rarely seen in the ten millennia of the Imperium. The auspex chirped and beeped; every sound represented a new situation or piece of information from the front lines that required handling.
The Avenging Son, the Master of War, the Lord of the XIII Legion—Roboute Guilliman—stood calmly before the massive Cogitator, his gaze sweeping rapidly across the waterfall of data flowing down the screens.
War is a precision machine. This is reflected not only in tactical command but also in the corresponding logistics scheduling, morale-boosting, route setting, and military manufacturing.
Through the Emperor's ticulous design using powerful genetic technology and his innate Warp essence, a Primarch possesses a comprehension of all types of knowledge far beyond that of a normal human. Even tactics that seem infinitely complex to an ordinary person can be mastered with ease by them. Thus, almost all Primarchs are natural masters of combat and artists of war command.
If soone were to rank the command abilities of the Primarchs, the Master of the Ultramarines, Roboute Guilliman, would certainly stand at the forefront.
Accompanying his resonant voice, key orders were issued one after another. They passed down through a command chain that had been established for less than thirteen minutes yet possessed an incredibly efficient response cycle. Guilliman's orders were made in an instant, yet they could withstand any retrospective analysis—even the most senior and self-important human commanders could only admit defeat before such a chasm-like gap in command ability.
At that mont, a new ssage popped up.
Guilliman's brow furrowed slightly, while everyone else in the command center looked shocked.
The Phalanx was under attack? Who would dare attack the Phalanx? And... judging by the description, the situation appeared extrely serious.
Information flooded the screens like rain—a summary of key data from various witnesses. Inquisition agents were currently working at full capacity to integrate this information, transmitting it urgently to the command center, waiting for the supre decision-maker to make a choice.
Guilliman scanned the information calmly, understanding the situation.
It had begun. Everything was proceeding according to Adam's plan.
The Warp sub-god targeted by the plan had indeed plunged headfirst into the trap Adam had ticulously laid. This was an opportunity—an opportunity that could serve as the perfect turning point for the Imperium.
Knowing he didn't need to interfere and that this was a top-secret plan, yet wishing to avoid showing any weakness in the facade, Guilliman thought for a mont and quickly ordered:
"Bring up my military deploynt map."
The Cogitator's holographic sand table imdiately manifested, displaying a 3D tactical map of Terra to everyone present. From the deep layers of the hive cities to the soaring spires of the Imperial Palace, from atmospheric aircraft belonging to various departnts to the interstellar warships in orbit—every military unit was marked with a red dot.
The 3D image covered almost all combat zones of Terra. Military and non-military units were clear at a glance; even deep-buried fortifications and orbital warship deploynts were visible. Massive amounts of data continued to update, and all of it was processed within the Primarch's superhuman brain at high speed.
Guilliman reached out and tapped one of the slightly blinking red dots. In an instant, that dot expanded, transforming into a holographic model of a starship. A model of a Grey Knights Strike Cruiser appeared before everyone in the command center.
So that's it. This arrangent is indeed appropriate. Everyone nodded inwardly.
Guilliman then issued his command: "Notify those Grey Knights that they no longer need to perform their atmospheric drop on Terra as planned. At this mont, we have assembled enough Adeptus Custodes, and there are large numbers of Sisters of Silence deployed on the surface. Their powerful Null fields are sufficient to block all Warp fluctuations. As a psyker Chapter, their drop has beco unnecessary."
"Therefore, their mission is to turn imdiately. I will grant the Grey Knights a friendly-fire identification code of the highest clearance. They are to conduct a direct boarding operation on the Phalanx and declare their intent to the Imperial Fists to provide support."
After giving the order, Guilliman watched the Grey Knights Strike Cruiser begin its turn on the holographic map. He imdiately opened a hidden communication channel and spoke in a low voice.
"Adam, what's the situation on your end?"
"Everything is proceeding as planned."
Adam ended the transmission and looked up, stepping forward calmly.
Not far away, an Imperial Fist warrior clad in yellow Mark VII Power Armor struggled to stand up. However, his body felt as if it had been filled with glue, locked firmly within his armor by an invisible will, unable to move.
"Who... who are you? Heretic!"
The voice of Tor Garadon, Captain of the Imperial Fists' 3rd Company, was filled with shock and fury, mixed with an undeniable trace of fear. If it were just a sudden attack, an Imperial Fist might not have lost his composure so completely. But the thought that he might have failed his oath—if an enemy were to seize the Phalanx and fire even a single shot at the surface of Terra—the consequences would be unthinkable.
To the Imperial Fists, that would be the ultimate insult, a symbol of abandoning their duty as the guardians of Terra. But he couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried. Why could this person appear so mysteriously inside the Phalanx? Why was he so familiar with the many layers of defense set by the Imperial Fists?
Garadon's gaze drifted involuntarily behind the mysterious man, seeing ranks of Astartes standing solemnly, clad in Power Armor identical to his own.
Are those Imperial Fists? Then who am I?
The numbers, the elite nature of the warriors—it even made him feel in a daze as if these people were the Founding mbers from the Imperium's Final Wall spoken of in the Chapter's history archives. Or perhaps... an even more distant era.
Filled with imnse confusion, Tor Garadon fell into a peaceful sleep.
Adam nodded with satisfaction; the irrelevant personnel had finally been cleared out. He turned to the person beside him and said, "I'll leave this to you, Sigismund."
A figure clad in Power Armor covered in ornate religious decorations, holding a black sword, stepped forward at the sound of his na.
The leader of the three greatest heroes of the Great Crusade, the first Emperor's Champion, the forr Captain of the Imperial Fists' 1st Company, and the first High Marshal of the Black Templars—Sigismund—nodded calmly, standing as still and silent as a cold statue of war.
User Comments
0 comments from readers