Chapter 327: The Weapon Has Been Oiled
When Karna returned to the Dawnlight, he found Arthur, who had been in another sector not long ago, already back. He was discussing strategy with Romulus, who hadn't rested since the war began, in front of the master map.
Beside them stood an unexpected guest.
"Ulthran?"
Before Karna could even react, Trazyn couldn't suppress the desire rising from the bottom of his necrodermis heart.
With the enhancement of a soul, Trazyn could savor this emotion with exquisite clarity.
This Farseer was also a specimen of immense collection value.
"Trazyn?"
The old Farseer naturally recognized the infamous thief; they had crossed paths many times before.
He noted the Overlord's attire and his soul projection. His heart sank slightly, realizing he might have been a step too slow.
"What are you doing here?" Ulthran demanded, terrified that this guy might have already handed over a Dolmen Gate capable of hacking into the Webway.
"Contributing my strength to the resurgence of my fellow humans," Trazyn declared, puffing out his chest.
I have long been a human.
Damn it, human ancestors were just scattered rodents when the Necron civilization was born, Ulthran cursed inwardly. His mouth twitched, but in the end, he couldn't compete with the Necron Overlord in a race to the bottom.
There was no helping it. Even Ulthran, who had opportunistically signed an agreement with the Dawnbreakers, couldn't bring himself to claim he was human.
"Coincidentally, so are we," the Solitaire beside him chimed in immediately, showing absolutely no baseline.
"Oho~"
Trazyn's ocular lenses flashed green.
Brothers in shamelessness.
The King of Collectibles felt he had met a worthy opponent.
"Everyone is here," Romulus said, looking up from his discussion with Arthur as the two sides faced off over their respective values.
There was indeed something he needed their help with.
Of course, Ramesses could handle it alone, but since they were cooperating, these xenos should show some cooperative spirit.
"Ah, my lord," Trazyn immediately adopted an exaggeratedly sycophantic posture, rubbing his hands together as he approached, his optical apertures narrowing into two crescent arcs. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"..."
The old Farseer's face was wooden.
He truly couldn't understand how a Necron Overlord could have no dignity whatsoever. How were the Eldar supposed to survive in this environment?
The Solitaire beside him sighed again and quickly spoke up: "If it is a personal request from the lords, we can agree to it as well."
Humble. Too humble.
"Nothing major. I just need you to accompany Ramesses on a trip," Romulus said. He wasn't a daemon; he wouldn't send people to their deaths without reason.
"We need to explore the ancient Eldar ruins where Fulgrim ascended. Ramesses needs to find relics linked to Perturabo or Fulgrim, and he requires your assistance."
The Regent scanned the room.
While the old Farseer hesitated at the Solitaire's decisive agreement, Ramesses stood beside Trazyn, patting his shoulder to retract the soul projection.
The galaxy's most notorious thieves, except for the one stuck on the Golden Throne, were all present.
One of these days, I should find a chance to get the Blood Ravens here. Then this gang would truly be flawless in composition.
"Sigh, why can't Master Art go with me?" Ramesses sighed, patting Trazyn on the shoulder.
"Arthur cannot go," Romulus refused again.
Arthur's mere existence would draw concentrated fire the moment the main battle fully unfolded. Everyone was mentally prepared for the assault, but venturing rashly into the heart of Chaos was too dangerous.
"Sigh." Ramesses sighed again.
Karna couldn't help but smile.
Arthur was a reliable bodyguard for Ramesses. Beside Romulus, he was a bodyguard who also shared the heavy burden of administration. Beside Karna, he allowed the Angel to empty his mind and focus on what he did best.
Even when left alone, the King of Knights managed Legion affairs perfectly, skillfully mediating conflicts between Chapters and constantly advancing the innovation and application of warfare technology.
Now, Romulus could command rebellious sons like the Dark Angels and Space Wolves without a hitch.
"How about deploying to the surface of Cadia with me? Maintaining fleet superiority makes it hard for Chaos to attack," Karna suggested.
Everyone liked teaming up with Arthur.
"Does no one ask for my opinion?"
The blue light of the tactical hologram suddenly extinguished. Arthur looked up. This tool-man, whose diligence was second only to Romulus, rarely expressed dissatisfaction.
Indeed, being ordered around like a tool every day, who wouldn't have some resentment?
"And what is your opinion?" Ramesses's eyes lit up. Was he getting his Storm Shield back?
"I listen to Romulus," the Knight shrugged.
His movement to reignite the tactical projection was fluid, as if the protest just now had never happened.
"..."
Master Art, your talent for dry humor is growing.
Ramesses's face fell. He waved his hand dismissively, signaling the other three master thieves to prepare to leave.
The green-robed Magos, the old Farseer, and the Solitaire immediately followed him. The four figures disappeared into the hum of the sliding blast doors.
Time waited for no one.
The Black Templars had forced their way into the Eye of Terror multiple times to locate the coordinates of the Daemon World where the ascension took place. Securing control of the planet and obtaining the key relics a moment earlier would increase their odds against Chaos by a fraction.
"It's all done," Arthur said, watching Ramesses and the others leave.
"The Black Templars have been recalled. I've drafted some Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists officers to form a naval advisory group. Under Bjorn's leadership, the Space Wolves continue to strike at the periphery of the Eye of Terror, hitting Chaos production worlds."
The coming fleet battles required the sons of Dorn and the Gloriana-class battleship.
The Space Wolves' combat style differed too much from the current Imperial mainstream. Led by Bjorn—a warrior who had been prayed to for ten thousand years and could rival the chief daemons of the Four Gods—they had more room to maneuver in rear-line strikes, further forcing Chaos to react.
Which Chaos Lord had the guts to duel Bjorn the Fell-Handed?
"It's all done," Romulus said, staring at the projection, chin in hand.
The preparations were made. The initial strategic pressure was applied. Ramesses's reconnaissance mission targeting the Primarchs had begun. The strategic deception about his own weakness had been disseminated.
Every sector surrounding the Eye of Terror had ten to twenty worlds under the direct jurisdiction of the Dawnbreakers. Harassment of various planets by Chaos warbands, Dark Mechanicum raiding fleets, and opportunistic xenos had been effectively contained.
The Iron Warriors had also chosen to retreat after occupying vast swathes of sectors.
In the initial exchanges across several sectors, he had won.
Romulus was pleased with his achievement. Anyone would be involuntarily happy to achieve such results.
The Imperium was vast, and he was fortunate enough to utilize that vastness.
Next was the waiting game.
Romulus scrutinized the reports submitted by the Black Templars and Space Wolves.
They hinted at the mobilization of three Traitor Legions: the Emperor's Children, the World Eaters, and the Iron Warriors. In the scattered conflicts within the Eye of Terror, both Loyalists and Chaos had more or less exposed their movements.
Chaos could not hold back.
"Now we must prepare ourselves," Arthur said. Even with his extensive understanding of the warp and reality, he didn't know exactly how Chaos would strike.
There were too many cases of them not playing by the rules, especially the Blood God.
They could only do their best to ensure that even if the Dark Gods intervened, the humans within the area of effect would still have the power to resist.
"Yes," Romulus looked up, staring at the image of Cadia.
He had a premonition. His victory or defeat against Perturabo was a duel between them, but the key to the victory between Chaos and humanity lay on this planet that blocked the expansion of the Eye of Terror.
"Prepare Cadia."
In our regiment, eating is a ritual.
It is both the refueling of the warrior's shell and the tempering of the warrior's will.
The regimental preacher usually chooses to deny the divinity of the Primarchs who grant us food, but some like to call it "receiving communion."
The place is not a mess hall, but a solemn Confirmation Hall. The long stone tables are cold as altars. Light filters down from high, narrow stained-glass windows, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air.
Depicted above are not saints or angels, but the past heroes of the regiment. Holding lasrifles and chainswords, they fight alongside saints and the Emperor's Angels, their expressions solemn.
The food, called treasure by warriors from feral worlds, is delivered by servitors on heavy carts that emit a low hum.
It is placed in the steel tray before each soldier.
It is a grey, dense block, veined with faint black mineral lines, pressed into a perfect cube without a single flaw.
It emits an inorganic smell, akin to ozone and faint chemicals, somewhat discomforting.
But this discomfort is quickly banished.
Opening the container reveals a hearty meal.
In the past, aside from officers of noble birth, a soldier could rarely taste food of this quality.
So before eating, we pray.
The preacher stands at the end of the hall. His voice echoes under the dome through a vox-caster, not asking for protection or blessings, but reciting excerpts from the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer.
"Flesh is weak, but the will is immortal."
"Fear is an illusion; only duty is eternal."
"This body is the weapon of humanity; this food is the whetstone for the blade."
Every warrior bows their head, not to the food, but to the Dawnbreaker emblem on their chest. This reminds us that what we swallow is not merely to satisfy our appetite, but to better fulfill our duty to protect humanity.
Then, the ritual begins.
You use a heavy steel spoon, more tool than cutlery, to cut the first piece of food. It is soft, requiring no force.
Placed in the mouth, the tongue can barely taste anything. It is warm, soft, with a dense texture.
Your taste buds, tempered by gene-therapy and countless battlefields, can no longer distinguish fine flavors.
They can no longer tell how rich this food is; they can only tell you: this is nutrition, this is fuel.
But your thoughts are not here.
While mechanically chewing and swallowing, you silently recite the name of the ninety-seventh component of the void armor you are responsible for maintaining. You recall the scars on it, every enemy fallen in the last battle, every comrade sacrificed.
What you taste is not this hearty food, but the weight of responsibility, the embers of hatred.
Some say these meals are made by the miracles of the Primarchs.
Some say each block contains a trace of saints' ashes, to pass on their courage.
None of this matters.
You taste the food, recalling the training you received.
What matters is what it represents.
Continuity.
Continuing your combat capability, continuing the regiment's mission, continuing humanity's life in the dark universe.
You drink purified water, served in a metal cup without a single decoration.
In one gulp, it washes away the soft residue in your mouth and seems to wash away any trace of weakness that might rise in your heart.
No one speaks.
You are elite because you only need to think about how to fight. Conversation is left for the tents after the battle to inventory comrades' effects; nervousness is left for the Commissars to dispel by leading the charge.
You look at another unit.
Those troops from feral worlds, often ignored by the Departmento Munitorum, are seated not far from you.
They no longer need to scrounge for a power pack in the trenches like in the past, nor trade their meager resources for temporary pleasures.
Everyone is equipped with the most advanced weapons; everyone has supplies enough to fill their bellies.
They are all the same.
No one pays attention to anything outside the war.
There is only the uniform clinking of spoons against trays and the dull sound of swallowing.
This sound is like a giant war machine performing self-maintenance—calm, rhythmic, devoid of emotion.
The meal ends. Utensils down. Silent contemplation.
Muscles twitch constantly, recalling thousands of training sessions.
When the ship's klaxon sounds, the warriors stand up in unison, making a crisp, collective noise.
In your ears is the briefing for the war mission. Elite troops always need a degree of initiative and a further understanding of the battlefield situation because they need to step into the most dangerous zones. In those areas, the most effective way to transmit intelligence is to scream at a comrade across the trench.
And the tacit understanding and trust carved into the blood.
You begin to stride, walking toward the Stormbird prepared for you.
Engaging your helmet, as the void armor's life-support system activates, you can feel the body's energy recovering.
Your spirit, too, becomes harder and colder because of this ritual.
You didn't just eat a meal; you completed a maintenance cycle.
The weapon has been oiled.
A tremor comes from the void, the echo of low-velocity debris striking the Stormbird's hull.
Now, it is time to use it.
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