Governor's Mansion, War Conference Room.
Raynor stood before a massive holographic sand table, his eyes tracing the glowing points of light that represented his gathering forces.
Fourteen million strong—this would be the first host to march in support of the Frostwall. It had been officially designated the Brevis Vanguard. Raynor had assud personal command of the Vanguard, leading the entirety of the expeditionary force.
Fourteen million—the number sounded monuntal to a civilian, but in the grim darkness of the far future, where life was the cheapest currency, it was hardly considered a grand army.
"The First Vanguard Corps, totaling three million n, departed yesterday," Gus reported from his side. He held a data slate, his expression etched with professional gravity. "They are commanded by Major General Harold, a subordinate of Carter and forr commander of the 3rd PDF Army. According to the strategic plan, they are traversing the 'Northern Ice Route' toward the Frostwall. They are expected to reach the front lines within seven days."
Raynor nodded, his gaze following the winding blue path projected on the sand table. "And the other echelons?"
"The Second Corps departs in three days via the 'Middle Route Canyon.' The Third Corps follows in five days through the 'Southern Plains.' The remaining regints are held in reserve at the primary base, to be deployed in waves depending on the tactical situation at the front."
Gus paused, then added: "Furthermore, acting on your directives, Steward Tom—the one they call the Butcher—has finished recruiting 'volunteers' from the Underhive. More than two million have registered and are currently undergoing basic indoctrination. The first equipnt shipnts from the Ryan Union are being prioritized for them."
Raynor humd in acknowledgent. He reached out and swiped across the interface, pulling up the granular data for each legion: unit designations, commanding officers, equipnt quality, and training proficiency. As he scrolled, his brow furrowed deeper.
"There is a significant discrepancy here," Raynor noted. "Fourteen million n looks impressive on a ledger, but the number of combat-ready troops is likely no more than three million. The other eleven million are largely private house guards of the noble families. They are well-equipped, yes, but they lack standardized training and operate as independent entities. The militia, while possessing decent morale, are poorly ard and functionally untrained. Sending such a disorganized mob against the Greenskins is nothing short of suicide."
Gus remained silent. He knew Raynor's assessnt was accurate. But this was the reality of Brevis—a capital world hollowed out by internal corruption and on the brink of collapse. To muster an army of this size at all was already a minor miracle.
"Therefore," Raynor continued, "I have made certain... adjustnts." He manipulated the data slate for a mont, bypassed an encryption lock, and handed it back to Gus.
Gus scanned the file, his eyes widening. "Sir... you allowed that person to 'infect' every officer at the company level and below?"
The docunt revealed that within the three million n of the First Vanguard Corps, every company commander, platoon leader, and squad sergeant was marked with a red tag. It indicated they had been successfully integrated by the specialized gene-agents created by Sarah II. They retained their mories, skills, and personalities, but their fundantal loyalty had been rewired to serve Sarah and, by extension, Raynor.
Raynor saw the look on Gus's face and offered a thin smile. "Don't worry, Gus. They aren't dead. They've just beco more... reliable. Their tactical abilities remain intact, but their loyalty to is now absolute."
Gus hesitated, his mouth opening as if to protest, before he thought better of it. "And the high-ranking officers?"
"I left them untouched," Raynor said. "Anyone above the rank of Brigadier is either one of Carter's n or a mber of the Noble Council. They receive weekly purifications and baptisms from the Ecclesiarchy; it would be too risky to subvert them directly. The junior officers are different—they are nurous, expendable, and far harder for the Inquisition to track. Besides, the man who truly decides if a unit holds the line isn't the General in the rear, but the Company Commander leading the charge."
Gus realized the cold efficiency of the strategy. Control the grassroots, and you control the sword of the army. "But," Gus asked, "what if the Noble Council discovers this?"
"They won't," Raynor interrupted. "At least not in the short term. These 'officers' are perfect mimics; they know how to play their parts. Once the at grinder starts on the front lines, who will have the ti to investigate the genetic purity of a squad leader?"
Raynor looked out toward the horizon. He knew he was gambling with the lives of millions of low-quality troops, but for Brevis, ti was a luxury they didn't have. This was a war of attrition—a "card-drawing" exercise where he hoped the fires of battle would forge a few "gold cards" out of the raw iron of the militia.
Three days later.
The Second Vanguard Corps began its march. Raynor accompanied the host personally. Carter remained behind to manage the Governor's Palace, while "Isod"—the Governor's wife—handled the planet's internal affairs.
Gus had been ordered to stay at the palace, but the unsettling aura of "Isod"—the feeling of a "familiar stranger"—had terrified him so much that he practically begged to follow Raynor to the front. Raynor had agreed. Though Gus was timid, he was a ticulous adjutant, skilled in the clerical arts and noble protocols. Raynor intended to hone him into a capable asset.
The three-million-strong Second Corps departed the main base amidst a swirling blizzard. Raynor sat inside a reinforced Chira command vehicle, watching the world pass by through a narrow viewport. The column andered across the ice like a great gray serpent. The rhythmic roar of engines and the synchronized trudge of boots created a grim symphony of war.
Opposite him sat Dobby, clumsily performing maintenance on her power hamr. Gus was huddled in the corner, swaddled in blankets, his face a mask of pale anxiety.
"Sir, must we really go to the front?" Gus asked, his voice trembling. "Could we not command just as effectively from the Governor's Mansion?"
"It's not the sa, Gus," Raynor said without looking back. "In an office, war is just dots and lines on a map. On the front, you sll the blood, you hear the rattle of death, and you feel the true weight of every command. If I want these n to fight, I have to show them that I am willing to bleed with them. Only a visible victory can bring hope back to this world."
Gus nodded blankly and retreated into his thoughts. Raynor turned his attention back to the intelligence report on the Greenskins sent back by the First Corps.
[Greenskin Cluster, Primary Clan: The Stomach-True Clan]
Physiological Features: Exceptional 'horizontal' developnt. Distended abdons, but possessed of extre muscle density. Strength levels significantly exceed standard Ork records.
Combat Logistics: They carry a specialized starch-based ration tentatively designated 'Honko,' synthesized from ground bone and rare fungi.
Effects: Upon consumption of 'Honko,' Greenskin combat efficacy spikes, healing factors accelerate, and a state of sustained 'Waaagh!' frenzy is triggered.
Raynor's brow furrowed. "Honko"? The na felt absurdly familiar, like a ghost from his previous life. He scrolled further and found a grainy, long-range reconnaissance photo.
It depicted a gargantuan figure seated amidst a literal mountain of green sludge. The beast wore crude black-and-yellow ga-armor, standing over five ters tall and nearly as wide—a ball of pulsing green flesh and muscle. It was shoving dripping chunks of at into a maw that never seed to stop moving.
[Target Designation: Warboss 'Big Stomach' Arang]
Traits: Pathologically gluttonous; feeds almost constantly.
Aura: All Greenskins in his vicinity beco preternaturally hungry and aggressive.
Intelligence: Rarely leaves the 'Farm World' of Dorido; obsessed with his 'food industry.'
Raynor stared at the image for a long ti before muttering a curse under his breath.
"A Greenskin Warboss obsessed with... gourt food?"
He rubbed his temples. He had encountered Orks who specialized in mad science, dark sorcery, and even those who displayed a strange, primitive faith. But a "Foodie" Warboss was a first.
"Sir?" Gus asked cautiously. "Is sothing wrong?"
Raynor shook his head and deactivated the data slate. "Nothing, Gus. I just realized that even after everything I've seen, this galaxy can still surprise with its absurdity."
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