Flas erupted from every crevice of the distant fortress. Countless agonized screams echoed into the sky, vividly demonstrating to everyone that the flathrowers, mixed with a small amount of phosphoric weapon fuel, had achieved devastating results.
Once the extre heat softened the structural nodes of the fortress, the earthquake cannon dismantled from the Titan fired. The resulting seismic shockwaves instantly blasted the stronghold into burning mounds of modular scrap tal.
"Only the Emperor!"
Despite the overwhelming suppressive fire that shattered the war fortress in an instant, the underlying logic of this universe dictated that true powerhouses would not perish from such an impact alone.
"Protect us!"
The Crimson Fists surged like a tide toward the scattered Ork modules, the battle rapidly devolving into brutal close-quarters combat.
Yet, these Orks, who historically possessed an insatiable love for hacking and slashing, seed to have lost their souls. Lacking their usual vigor, they were ruthlessly struck down by the crimson-armored warriors rallying around their banners.
Captain Pedro's gaze was icy. He raised his arm, and his Power Fist, gleaming with a crimson aura, unleashed a bolt round, executing the charging Ork Nob in the vanguard with a single shot.
Imdiately after, he dodged to the side, evading a sudden ambush from another Ork. With a swift backhand swing, his Power Fist emitted a screeching chanical whine as it ruthlessly smashed into the creature's face.
The skull burst open like a ripe lon, scattering red and white matter in all directions. Under the force of the energy field, the entire facial tissue was completely sheared from the skeleton, utterly obliterating its nervous system.
He then kicked the headless corpse away. His raised bolt pistol swept left and right, the barrel spitting wrathful flas as it instantly gunned down two more Orks rushing forward with roaring battle cries.
"You puny humie!"
The Warboss's energy field erupted with brilliant light, a concussive blast violently pushing aside the surrounding rubble.
He could feel the Waaagh! energy field weakening, a sensation uncomfortably similar to encountering those particularly obnoxious humans.
Fortunately, he was the boss; he was completely unaffected!
The Warboss imdiately locked his sights on the towering, imposing Pedro and charged forward, wildly swinging his Power Klaw.
His deflector shield effortlessly blocked the feeble ranged attacks raining down on him.
"Take this!"
The Warboss let out a deafening roar and lunged at Pedro.
Displaying an agility that completely defied his massive fra, Pedro retreated and evaded the strike.
"Heh heh, fell right into my—"
The Warboss flashed a cunning grin as a stasis bomb suddenly ejected from the blade with a sharp click. But then, his smug smile was frozen in ti forever.
'Honestly, nowhere near as impressive as Lord Arthur.'
Retracting the bolt launcher on his gauntlet, Pedro looked at the Warboss, who was completely immobilized by the prematurely detonated stasis bomb.
If it were Lord Arthur, the very mont his sword fell, a fist or shield would already be smashing into your forehead. Even if you managed to block the fist, the sword would have just about severed your head.
So far, he had never seen anyone perfectly defend against that combination.
However, a ceremonial duel was one thing; a daily one-on-one sparring session was an entirely different spectacle.
Unlike the rigid determination shown during formal bouts with Lord Arthur, his teaching style was completely devoid of martial honor. He would use all sorts of dirty tricks, turning anything capable of causing harm into a weapon. This utterly tornted the Chapter Masters, Captains, and Champions eager to learn, pushing them to the brink of despair.
Pedro himself had fallen victim to stasis bombs plenty of tis in the past.
According to Lord Arthur, the enemy would never offer you the courtesy of an honorable duel. An enemy was an enemy, and a dead one was the best kind; the process of getting there was entirely irrelevant.
Even if one disdained using such underhanded thods, they had to understand these ambushes to react appropriately when unexpected situations arose.
Many dueling champions from various Chapters had a terrible habit of letting provocation get to their heads, blindly leaping into single combat. This made them easy targets for an Alpharius who had hidden a gun, ready to blast them in the face with a bolt round when they lacked a ranged weapon of their own.
Of course, if you were as capable as Lord Arthur, then you could just ignore that advice completely.
Breaking through a blockade of heavy fire with near-teleportation speed, shrugging off psychic sorcery, and then cutting down an opponent in just two strokes—if you could pull that off, no dirty tricks would ever work against you.
Crunch!
Clenching his fist tightly, the thrusters on his back dynamically adjusted his charge trajectory in sync with the pull of his electro-motivated muscle fibers. Pedro silently counted down the seconds until the stasis field dissipated.
Three.
The jump pack ignited its gaseous flas.
Two.
Servo-motors spun up to maximum velocity.
One!
"—trap!"
The Warboss still wore the smug smile of a successful sche, only for his vision to be completely filled by a rapidly expanding crimson fist.
Crash!
The fist struck the heavy armor, punching straight through the left side of the chest. Then, the Warboss's massive five-ter-tall heavy battle suit seed to violently repel itself from the inside out, sending tal, flesh, and blood flying in all directions.
With just a single punch, this Warboss—capable of wrestling a small Knight—was reduced to a skeleton stripped clean of all flesh and blood, leaving only a severed head that still clung to a fleeting trace of consciousness.
Heaven only knew how anyone could take a Power Fist to the face from a Thunder Warrior augnted by Adeptus Astartes surgeries.
The crimson glow of the Power Fist faded, the gauntlet recording the data related to this Ork. Pedro stepped forward and hoisted up the skeleton.
He had held back slightly because the company needed to conduct an experint.
"Can Orks be used?"
Returning to the inner periter of the battleline, Pedro casually picked off Orks with his bolt pistol while handing the remains of the Warboss over to the Chapter Chaplain.
The Black Templars had overwhelming numbers. A single Chapter alone had monopolized the eradication of Chaos, forcing those who had only brought a company to scrape by on the remaining scraps.
"We are all Sons of Dorn, yet they will not even leave us a sip of the soup."
Pedro could not help but mutter under his breath.
In truth, Supre High Marshal Ledodes felt quite wronged about the situation as well.
The main issue was that the customized honor system created by the Elders was far too intoxicating. Forged directly by the hands of the Elders, its artistic value was so astronomically high that it made Imperial artists hang their heads in sha—and that was before even considering the personalized post-modifications.
Putting aside its ability to stabilize reality, it allowed Space Marines outside the Librarians to gain a far greater advantage on the vast majority of battlefields.
It could record honor based on the Daemons slain. Slaying different types of foes would alter its appearance. When it was first distributed, everyone's gear looked identical. Yet, as ti passed, the varying types and numbers of enemies killed gradually changed the aesthetics, and the recorded honor was visible for all to see.
After Elder Rases brought the finished product out for promotion, the Black Templars fought an untold number of honorable duels over ownership rights, ultimately refusing to yield to one another.
Striking down a battle brother might prove your skill, but it did not necessarily an you excelled at butchering Daemons. If they had the guts, they needed to prove it on the battlefield first.
Every single Marshal and Chaplain ca knocking, begging Ledodes to give his battle brothers a hand, for the sake of the Primarch.
How could Ledodes possibly refuse? If he said no, it was debatable whether those Captains would survive their return, let alone whether he himself would make it to the next day in one piece.
'Fortunately, the Crimson Fists only brought their First Company and the Fourth Company responsible for fleet warfare.'
Pedro let out a sigh of relief. Every Chapter only had one Champion Company. The Black Templars and the Nesis Chapter might have been issued a few more due to their rather mysterious population sizes, but that was none of his concern.
If he did not claim it, who would?
"It works."
The Chapter Chaplain examined it closely, noticing that the Ork's combat record had already materialized on the banner.
"However, the reality-stabilizing effect is rather weak. Also, these Ork engravings..."
Deeply influenced by the Ultramarines, the Crimson Fists preferred a grand and majestic aesthetic. The irregular, crudely simplified edges of the Ork design were genuinely quite ugly.
"...Let us make do with it for now."
Pedro was only a Company Captain. He dared not compete for resources against the likes of the Blood Angels, the Black Templars, the Nesis Chapter, and the Carcharodons.
Oh, wait. The Carcharodons did not actually care about such things.
Pedro recalled briefly and realized that the Elders held a truly unique attitude toward that specific Chapter. At the very least, Lord Arthur frequently dropped by their flagship for a visit.
"There is no need to rush. The expedition has only just begun; we will have plenty of opportunities."
He offered a word of comfort, lowering his head slightly as he pondered whether he could also attempt to carve out a differentiated path for himself.
"I certainly hope so."
Holding the Warboss's banner aloft, the Chapter Chaplain nodded helplessly as he watched countless Grots and Orks fleeing into the distance, shrieking, "The Boss is dead! We lost! We lost!"
——
With the intervention of the Expeditionary Fleet, the chaotic war on Elks was swiftly driven to its conclusion at an absurdly rapid pace.
The result was a resounding victory for humanity.
Exactly twenty-two hours and sixteen minutes after the Expeditionary Fleet entered the Elks system, the planetary rebellion was entirely quelled.
"Consolidate the data, gather the troops, assess the planet, and conduct rest and resupply aboard the warships."
Romulus issued the final order.
"Next battlefield."
So soon?
Yes, it really was that fast!
Clean, efficient, and decisive!
And above all—
Countless individuals looked upon the Elders on the bridge with profound excitent.
Absolute perfection!
Every step led to a battle, and every step guaranteed a victory.
Furthermore, the Elders affird their honor, never once acting stingy with their praise and rewards.
All they had to do was obey orders. All they needed was to unleash their full potential as living weapons of war, relentlessly pursuing the ideals they yearned for!
Everyone eagerly anticipated the outco of this expedition. They all allowed their imaginations to run wild.
Dreaming of just how glorious the culmination of this grand crusade would truly be.
——
Prairie World Elks.
This planet had suffered a devastating dual assault from both the Orks and Chaos. Their offensives had been incredibly swift. Chaos forces deployed their blasphemous warmachines through warp portals positioned at the planet's poles, while the Orks penetrated deep into every human population center, infiltrating everywhere like relentless thorns in humanity's side.
However, millions of Imperial Guardsn remained locked in a bitter stalemate on this crucial resource planet, firmly believing that victory would ultimately belong to them.
And victory did, in fact, belong to them.
Bang!
The battered tal partition of the command tent was kicked open.
"Commissar, we won!"
A captain returning from the frontlines shouted with overflowing excitent, only to abruptly notice the Inquisitor standing before the Commissar.
It was as if a bucket of absolute-zero water had been instantly dumped over the captain's head. His gaze cleared in a flash, and he hastily grabbed a field report, pretending to read it as he tried to hide his face.
"..."
anwhile, the Commissar—who was secretly rejoicing that his boys had escaped the jaws of death—did not even dare to glance at the captain. He simply remained silent, a bitter twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stared at the stack of docunts in his hands.
The countless imperial regulations within those pages, combined with the ominous presence of the Inquisitor looming before him, lded into a single, undeniable order.
You are commandeered.
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