In an instant, the remaining forty Ram-Ships were completely annihilated. Only two, which had luckily escaped the perimeter of the vortexes, turned and fled as if possessed. Those Ork boyz no longer thought of glory; they only wanted to survive.
In the starry void, the two vortexes swirled for several minutes before slowly closing and vanishing. They had forcibly carved out a "vacuum zone" amidst the cluttered asteroid belt.
The vanguard fleet clearing the path had also encountered an assault. Just as they exited the asteroid belt, a Greenskin scrap fleet lunged from the flank. Dozens of shoddily patched ships made of scrap iron, their turrets crooked and hulls looking ready to fall apart at any moment, surged forward. Their paint jobs were a chaotic mess of green, red, yellow—every color imaginable.
Without the cover of the asteroid belt, they were detected by scanning systems early on. The vanguard immediately formed a battle line centered around the two Moon-class cruisers. Six frigates formed an escort formation, standing before the capital ships like a line of disciplined sentries.
Main batteries fired in unison. Beams of light interlaced in the void, tearing through the darkness. The lead ships of the scrap fleet exploded into fireballs instantly; they were blown to pieces before they could even draw near.
The battle ended quickly. The vanguard fleet suffered almost no losses, save for one frigate that had its void shield energy exhausted and took a grazing hit from a stray shell.
However, the mood of the entire fleet was far from optimistic. Inside the bridge of the Measure of Discipline, the officers remained silent, their faces grim. As members of the Imperium—or at least the Imperial faction—they had actually been ambushed by Orks? Those brawling lunatics had actually set an ambush in advance?
Some stole glances at Luna. The Regent stood in the center of the bridge, her face ashen, equally silent. Her eyes were fixed on the empty stretch of the asteroid belt outside the viewport, her thoughts unreadable. A poor start meant the advantage of surprise was lost. Now, only one path remained: a head-on collision with the Greenskins.
But Luna did not lose heart. She stood on the bridge, looking at the dejected officers, and clenched her metal fist. She thought of Raynor! The culprit who had led her fleet into this trap!
But the more he obstructed her, the more it proved one thing: he was afraid. Afraid that she would take Karl-2 first and be appointed Crusade Marshal. He feared being crushed under her heel.
"Issue orders," she spoke, her voice devoid of emotion. Every officer looked up at her.
"The fleet will retreat one hundred thousand meters. The two mobile docks are to move up; all damaged ships will be repaired on-site. For those with severe damage, replace parts with spares immediately. Within three days, I want every ship restored to full combat readiness."
"Then, let that despicable Cary Von and these Greenskins see our resolve!"
Since Raynor's hands were a bit dirty, Luna saw no reason not to play her own games. This was an unspoken rule between the two sides. As a leader of the Tzeentchian faction, Luna naturally wouldn't allow Raynor to prepare his fleet in peace.
While the Measure of Discipline was undergoing its test flights, another front was secretly unfolding within the Brevis Primary Hive. The Adeptus Mechanicus and the Noble Council joined forces, helping Luna's agents infiltrate the ranks of the maintenance crews.
Raynor knew about this, of course; it would have been harder for him not to know. He had inserted a large number of Genestealers into the repair teams. These hybrids occupied every key position, and any suspicious movement couldn't escape SARAH's eyes.
However, these mortals—possessing a certain level of knowledge and technical skill—were already a high-risk group for Tzeentchian corruption. Not to mention there was a literal nest of Tzeentch followers among the Hive's upper echelon. Thus, Raynor didn't expend all his energy trying to block their infiltration. It would have required too much effort and might not have been effective anyway, so he simply let it happen.
In any case, he had plenty of ways to deal with the "sabotage" of the Tzeentchian cultists.
Followers of Tzeentch were masters at planting the wrong seeds in the right places. They didn't infiltrate just to blow things up; that was too crude. Generally, they chose to "help by doing harm."
Inside the data crypt of the spaceport, a figure in a technician's robe operated a terminal. His fingers danced across the keys, pulling up the repair schematics for a nearly completed frigate.
The focus parameters of the lance batteries were adjusted by 0.001 degrees. The fuel mixture ratio for the plasma reactor was moved to the very edge of the safety threshold—just enough to pass inspection, but a hair's breadth from danger.
Every modification was extremely subtle, so small that no routine check would find an issue. During trial runs, the ship would perform normally, with all data within acceptable ranges. But during high-intensity, prolonged combat, the lances would mysteriously miss their marks. The reactor power would fluctuate, and the void shields would flicker at the most critical moment.
When that happened, the Tech-priests would check every system and recite every prayer, yet find no cause. Because the "maintenance records" would show everything as normal, they could only conclude the Machine Spirit was "displeased."
Similar scenes played out elsewhere. A warehouse manager, while moving parts, secretly swapped out a specific bearing. The new bearing was identical to the original, except that in the area meant for sacred oils, a trace amount of acidic substance had been added. That acid wouldn't break the bearing immediately; instead, it would slowly corrode over time, eventually snapping at a critical moment.
A clerk, while organizing files, buried a corruption trap within a maintenance schedule. Anyone who looked at that table would be lured by the hidden Warp whispers, falling step by step into a pit of curiosity.
Their sabotage wouldn't let Raynor's people discover a problem immediately. On the contrary, the repair progress would even seem to speed up, because aside from "helping by doing harm," they actually did the work. Only when the real battle began would those latent problems erupt all at once. This was the true style of Tzeentch.
What they didn't know was that everything they did was unfolding under SARAH's watchful eyes.
When it came to infiltration, the caliber of Genestealer Cults was among the highest in the galaxy. Those Tzeentch followers thought they were being seamless, unaware that every time they acted, more than one pair of eyes watched from the shadows.
SARAH's true body still slumbered deep within Twin Peaks, but her consciousness had covered all of Brevis through the Hive Mind. Every Genestealer was her eye; every infected human was her tentacle.
Data modified by Tzeentch cultists was silently changed back by another Genestealer priest in the next second. Parts that were swapped were replaced with brand-new ones that very night. Corruption traps buried in the archives were scanned by SARAH's psychic power and tossed into incinerators without a word.
Inside the Imperium, handling these issues would be troublesome. The modifications made by Tzeentch followers were so minute that even if you found a problem, you wouldn't know how to fix it. Because those parameters were already at the boundary of "acceptable," moving them back might cause other data to exceed limits.
Furthermore, they would leave "Tzeentchian tricks" at the places they tampered with. Those traps would mislead you, twisting your thoughts so you couldn't see the problem. They might even lure you deeper, generating a massive curiosity for forbidden knowledge.
Until, finally, you realized that whispers from the Warp were echoing within your own mind.