I.
Deep within the fortress of the Olympia base.
The metal hatch of the training terminal slowly opened. Dantioch opened his eyes and felt the familiar stinging sensation spread from the back of his neck through his entire body.
This was the normal reaction to a neural link disconnecting. Three months of virtual training. Two hundred and twenty-two deaths. Each one terrifyingly real.
He sat up, his gaze falling on his own hands — those hands enhanced by the Primarch surgery and clad in precision-crafted power armor — trembling slightly now. Not from fear, but from his body's instinctive response to countless "deaths."
Even knowing they were virtual, each time he was torn apart by a grenade, decapitated by a power axe, or crushed by xenos and traitors, it was burned into his nerves like a brand.
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"My lord, your physiological indicators have returned to normal."
A medical servo-drone hovered beside the capsule, its optical lens flickering with cold indifference.
Dantioch nodded and rose from the metal pod. His frame was somewhat larger than three months ago — a body approaching three meters tall casting a long shadow beneath the training terminal's lights.
The surface of his precision power armor bore not a single scratch, yet he knew that beneath this brand-new suit of plate was a soul tempered through countless cycles of life and death.
Throughout the training terminal's hall, similar scenes played out in repetition.
Twenty-two thousand Iron Warriors gradually awakened from their metal pods. Their movements were strikingly uniform — silently sitting up, silently standing, silently checking their bodies. No one spoke. Only the faint mechanical sounds of power armor joints in motion echoed through the vast hall.
Castus approached from a distant pod, his stride more measured than three months ago. Deep within those grey eyes, something ineffable had taken root. He walked to Dantioch's side and, equally without words, gave a slight nod.
Three months. An average of two hundred and twenty-two deaths.
For a mortal, this would be enough to shatter any mind completely. But for an Astartes, this was simply the necessary path to becoming a true warrior.
II.
In the training terminal's hall, the twenty-two thousand Iron Warriors stood in silence.
Castus stood beside Dantioch, his gaze fixed on the massive screen ahead.
It displayed each warrior's training data — death count, kill count, tactical decision accuracy...
Over these three months, their combined combat effectiveness had increased to at least three times what it had been. Not just individual strength, but the entire Legion's power.
Ferrix stood at the front of the formation, his gaze sweeping across the new recruits before him.
Five months ago, he had led ten thousand battle-scarred veterans with simple equipment. Now, standing before him were twenty-two thousand reborn Iron Warriors — twenty-two thousand elite recruits who had completed the Primarch surgery and emerged from their father's academies.
Watching the light in those recruits' eyes, Ferrix knew they were no longer "rookies."
In the virtual battlefields, they had accumulated combat experience that other Legions might take decades to gather. They had faced the savage charges of greenskins, the uncanny tactics of xenos, the lethal strikes of renegade Astartes.
They had held the ruins of cities until the last moment, broken out of encirclements on frozen tundra, fought hand-to-hand in space stations, and triggered a reactor core on a xenos warship to take their enemies down with them.
Every death had been real agony — complete annihilation — an ultimate test of will.
But they had endured.
"Brothers."
Ferrix's voice was not loud, yet every word reached every ear with perfect clarity.
"Welcome to the ranks of the Iron Warriors."
He placed his right fist upon his breastplate.
"Iron within and without."
"Iron within and without!"
III.
"They've grown so quickly."
Calliphone watched the Iron Warriors on the screen, feeling a mix of surprise and admiration.
Just three months ago, they had been a group of high-achieving teenagers in the academy. Now there was not a trace of youth or vitality about them. Their eyes were full of resolve and maturity — even a hint of world-weariness.
The changes in their physique and appearance were remarkable. The shortest among them stood at two meters sixty, with powerful, solid frames. Their handsome features seemed somehow out of place on those hulking bodies.
Calliphone suspected it had to be her brother's outstanding genes at work — there was simply no other explanation for why those ten thousand veterans had become noticeably better-looking after the Primarch surgery, and why the new recruits were also, objectively speaking, quite striking.
Her priorities were peculiar, but Perturabo paid that no mind.
"Mm. The aura emanating from them is powerful — completely different from before. So this is what Astartes are?" said her younger brother Andros, turning an Iron Warrior chess piece over in his hands — a piece he had carved during his leisure hours.
On a real battlefield, death comes only once. The experience his sons had accumulated in the virtual realm would become the capital that kept them alive through the Great Crusade.
After this training, the Fourth Legion's probability of survival on the battlefield was more than five times higher than that of the other Astartes Legions of the Imperium.
With the assistance of Logic Engines and Abhorrent Intelligences, along with the fleet and heavy fire support he had provided, their survival rate would climb even higher.
"This is what it actually means to be a Legion. Without this, they'd go into the Great Crusade using the same stiff, outdated tactics — the casualty ratios would be painful to look at. I wouldn't be ashamed for them; I'd be ashamed for myself."
Calliphone and Andros didn't argue with Perturabo. They knew him far too well — they knew exactly when he was saying the opposite of what he meant.
IV.
The doors at the front of the hall opened. Perturabo strode in, Calliphone and Andros following behind. His gaze swept across the twenty-two thousand upright figures, and a trace of barely perceptible satisfaction crossed his eyes.
"You have exceeded my expectations."
Perturabo's voice was level, yet each word carried clearly to every ear.
"I told you the training would be brutal. Now you have endured it. You have become true Iron Warriors."
Thirty-two thousand Iron Warriors and Iron Guard stood in rigid silence.
Perturabo raised a hand, and a holographic projection appeared. He tapped it several times.
The image displayed the full scope of the Olympia System: twenty-two colonized planets, four mining worlds, two agri-worlds, five hundred space fortresses, dense orbital defense platforms, and warships under construction in various shipyards.
"Your training is over. But the true fighting has only just begun."
A flick of his finger enlarged the holographic projection, which finally settled on a set of coordinates at the edge of the Olympia System.
"At a distance of eleven point seven light-years from the Olympia System lies a xenos empire called 'Sork.' Dominated by a species known as the Krathos, it has existed for over ten thousand years, controls eleven star systems, and possesses a complete industrial and military apparatus. According to the Logic Engine's analysis, the Sork Empire has a population of approximately eight hundred and eighty-eight billion, with a standing military force exceeding eighty billion. They possess a complete void fleet and ground defense network. Their technology is slightly below that of the Imperium, but their numerical advantage is sufficient to compensate for the difference."
"Their star systems lie near the expansion routes we will need in the future. This threat must be completely eliminated."
"We will strike first. The Krathos xenos will be utterly exterminated."
More data began to appear on the holographic projection — detailed star charts of the Kratos Systems, the Sork Empire's military disposition, terrain analysis of all eleven systems, the scale and configuration of their void fleets — all displayed with perfect clarity.
Perturabo's voice carried no emotional inflection whatsoever. He was simply stating facts.
Ferrix's brow furrowed slightly.
Eight hundred and eighty-eight billion enemy troops. Eleven star systems. A complete industrial base. This was comparable to the most formidable opponents they had faced in their simulation training.
"Father, are we finally returning to the Great Crusade?"
Berossus could barely suppress the excitement in his voice.
Perturabo glanced at him and gave a slight nod.
"Yes. This will be the Fourth Legion's first campaign after returning to the Great Crusade."
"The ships and war machines are prepared. You will have fifteen days to make ready, after which you will lead the expedition fleet and begin the campaign."
He turned, his gaze sweeping across the data on the holographic display.
"But before that, I need you to understand our fleet."
His fingers swept through the air again, and the image shifted to display the Fourth Legion's complete current order of battle.
"At present, the Fourth Legion has three companies of ten thousand each, plus a recruit company still in training, for a total of thirty-two thousand Astartes and twenty-two thousand Iron Guard."
"We are equipped with twenty-two Imperator-class Titans, two hundred and twenty Warlord-class Titans, five hundred Warbringer-class Titans, two thousand two hundred Hound-class Titans, along with corresponding armored units, artillery units, and air support forces."
"Regarding the void fleet, we have three Gloriana-class battleships, twenty-two Emperor-class battleships, five hundred and thirteen cruiser-class capital ships, two thousand two hundred destroyers and frigates, and corresponding support vessels."
"All warships have been retrofitted with Logic Engines and are capable of fully automated combat."
"Mechanized troops and Iron Circle units have been deployed aboard the ships. Sacred Dreadnoughts and the Knight Household are also fully loaded."
Ferrix and Berossus exchanged glances, and each saw the shock mirrored in the other's eyes.
They had known their father had been building warships and Titans over the years — but only now, standing before this inventory, did they truly grasp how vast the power he held actually was.
Three Gloriana-class battleships. These were among the most elite warships in the entire Imperium, rare beyond measure. Even Legions as favored as the Luna Wolves and the Dark Angels possessed only one each.
And their father, all these years quietly tending to Olympia in obscurity — had built three.
"This is only the beginning."
Perturabo seemed to read their thoughts.
"While you are on campaign against the Sork Empire, I will continue building more warships and Titans here. The Fourth Legion requires not a momentary victory, but a sustained capacity for war."
"But you must remember one thing."
His voice grew grave.
"On a real battlefield, death comes only once."
"Castus. Sarax. Krogar. Sorthan..."
After delivering those words with grave emphasis, he moved on.
Those whose names were called stepped forward from the formation and knelt on one knee.
"You are promoted to Company Captains. Select your own men."
"As you command."
"Barbas Dantioch."
"Father."
The tall figure stepped out from the formation. Perturabo regarded this son — handsome yet resolute of face — and felt a deep admiration for him, though he would never show it.
"From today, you are the Captain of the Fourth Company, the Fourth Warsmith of the Iron Warriors."
Boom.
Dantioch felt a thunderclap go off inside his skull. He looked up at his father, whose expression remained as still as an undisturbed well.
He turned to look at his brothers. He could read nothing from their faces.
"Yes, Father."
He rose to his feet, feeling no particular joy or elation.
He was still a new recruit. Even if his performance in training had been excellent, if he were being truly honest, he did not yet have the standing to place himself as an equal beside those veterans.
"I will draw suitable candidates from the various academies across the Olympia System to bring the Fourth Legion up to full strength as soon as possible."
"Go and prepare."
Perturabo finished speaking and left. Dantioch felt an inexplicable weight settle over his shoulders.
Ferrix and Berossus came over. Neither harbored any resentment at this brother's sudden elevation to stand alongside them.
"Congratulations, brother."
Ferrix placed a hand lightly on Dantioch's yellow-and-black striped pauldron.
"Father certainly had his reasons and vision for promoting you. Dantioch — do not doubt yourself. A few months ago, Ferrix and I were also given command in a time of crisis."
Berossus tried to ease some of the young brother's anxiety and self-doubt.
"Berossus is right. The fact that Father chose you means there is something in you that shines brightly enough to merit it. Father does not promote lightly."
A voice came from behind Dantioch.
Tolaramino. Warsmith of the Third Company. A master of siege warfare.
"Indeed. Do not fear falling short of Father's expectations."
Ferrix and the others were remarkably kind and generous toward this young brother. The months of training had left them with great faith in this rising star.
V.
"Barbas, I never imagined you'd be my commanding officer so soon."
Castus and Dantioch were going through the roster of brothers available to fill the new company.
Scrolling through the data the Logic Engine had compiled, Castus teased him lightly.
"I don't really understand why Father chose me, even if my scores in training were decent enough."
Dantioch was still puzzled, but Castus cut off his train of thought.
"Why are you overthinking it? Even your commanding officer hasn't questioned your ability. Stop second-guessing yourself — channel that energy at the xenos instead. This enemy is no pushover."
"...Mm."
Dantioch nodded. What was done was done. He would not shirk the responsibility. In the battles ahead, he would not let his father or his brothers down.
VI.
Three days later. The Olympia System, Third Orbital Shipyard.
The Iron Warriors stood transfixed at the magnificent warships before them, watching as one colossal machine after another was dismantled and loaded aboard the ships.
Columns of towering Knight mechs were transported up again. Assault craft, Stormbirds, main battle tanks, electromagnetic cannons, artillery cannons...
Capital warships sat motionless in their docks. Their silhouettes shimmered with cold metallic brilliance in the light of the star.
Three Gloriana-class battleships stood at the center, each twenty-two kilometers long — immense, awe-inspiring. Their colossal ram prows, dorsal lance arrays, and the dense broadside macro-cannon batteries lining their flanks made their profiles look ferocious and terrible.
Cruisers, frigates, destroyers, and a seemingly innumerable support fleet surrounded them.
This was a fleet that could dominate an entire sub-sector unopposed.
Just how much strength had Father concealed?
This was something the Iron Warriors very much wanted to know.
They donned their new precision power armor, shouldered their heavy equipment, formed orderly columns, and embarked upon their respective warships in turn.
These warships had no names. Father had said he would not participate in the Great Crusade, so he was giving them the right of naming.
The time for that had not yet come — they still needed time to integrate.
Though in training they had already violated Imperial Truth countless times, fighting alongside Abhorrent Intelligences and wielding equipment and fire support beyond anything they had previously imagined, even in training their resources had been lavish beyond belief.
Yet they had never fought a campaign this well-supplied.
Dantioch stood on the bridge of the Iron Will, a Gloriana-class battleship, gazing through the massive viewport at the stars beyond. This was the first time in his life he had been in space. The first time he had witnessed a fleet of such scale with his own eyes. The first time he had truly grasped the depth of his father's power.
He suddenly understood why his father always said the Fourth Legion did not need to chase glory, did not need to seek fame.
Against a fleet of this scale, individual heroism meant nothing. What truly mattered was the team, discipline, coordination — each warrior faithfully fulfilling their role.
"What are you thinking about?"
Castus's voice came from behind him.
Dantioch turned to find Castus standing there, similarly gazing out at the stars.
"I'm thinking about just how powerful Father truly is. How many secrets he still hasn't told us."
Dantioch's tone was quiet.
"That's not something we need to know."
Castus's voice was equally calm.
"What we need to know is that Father has given us the most powerful equipment, the most advanced technology, and the most brutal training."
"Father trusts that we can complete every mission ahead of us. We are Iron Warriors. Our duty is to protect mankind, to guard Olympia, and to bring glory to Father."
"As for everything else — it doesn't matter."
Dantioch turned and looked at Castus. On that stern face, there was not a trace of hesitation, not a trace of doubt — only a deep and unshakeable conviction.
He's changed so much, Dantioch thought, a faint smile crossing his lips.
"You're right. None of it matters."
VII.
Fifteen days — for a mortal, perhaps enough to accomplish many things, but for Astartes, merely the blink of an eye.
In those fifteen days, the Fourth Legion's thirty-two thousand warriors barely rested.
They ran hundreds of tactical simulations against the Sork Empire in the training terminals. They conducted dozens of combined exercises with the fleet in the orbital anchorage. They ran countless integration drills with ground forces on the training fields.
Every simulation, the Logic Engines updated enemy tactics and force compositions based on the latest intelligence. Every exercise revealed new problems, and fresh plans were devised to address them. Every drill made the coordination between warrior and machine more intuitive.
Dantioch stood at the edge of the training field, watching the veterans running coordination drills with the Titans.
Three Imperator-class Titans moved like walking mountain ranges across the grounds, each step sending tremors through the earth. Hundreds of Warlord and Reaver Titans surrounded them, forming a moving wall of iron. Hound-class Titans prowled the perimeter, guarding the flanks of the god-machines.
These were the Titan Legions Father had produced for this campaign, forged long ago and now deployed at last.
"What do you think?"
Castus's voice came from behind.
"Father's Titan designs are far superior to anything the Mechanicum produces. Greater firepower, heavier armor, better mobility — and all of them controlled by Logic Engines, with reaction times far exceeding any human pilot."
Dantioch nodded, but a flicker of concern remained in his eyes.
"What are you worried about?"
Castus asked.
"I'm worried about situations we haven't encountered. In virtual training, we faced every type of xenos, every type of battlefield, every type of desperate scenario."
"But a real battlefield is always more complex — always more unpredictable."
Castus looked at his closest friend. He was still only a teenager, really, and yet Dantioch always thought of so much.
He was always like this: even in the most optimistic circumstances, he contemplated the most pessimistic possibilities. It had made him exceptional in training — he always anticipated enemy movements, always devised the most prudent tactics, always managed to summon extraordinary force even in the most desperate situations.
But sometimes Castus wondered whether carrying that disposition made Dantioch's life exhausting.
"Trust Father. Trust yourself. And don't forget — you've also got all of us brothers."
The lines in Dantioch's brow softened. He looked at Castus and nodded.
Just then, a thunderous roar rose from the training field.
Both of them looked over. The Titan Legion had begun advancing in one direction.
"The drill is over."
They turned and walked out of the training field.
Tomorrow, they would board their warships and set out on the campaign to exterminate the Krathos xenos of the Sork Empire.
VIII.
On the bridge of the Iron Will, Sorthan — an experienced Iron Guard captain — stood before the command console, his gaze fixed on the holographic star chart ahead.
"All systems check complete.
Engine warm-up complete.
Navigation systems calibrated.
Communications systems nominal.
Weapons systems on standby..."
He drew a slow breath.
"Fleet — set sail."
With his order, the main warships accompanying the Iron Will ignited their engines simultaneously. The tremendous thrust sent a tremor through the entire dock, and then one by one the warships began to move, easing out of the berths and into the deep stars.
The other two Gloriana-class battleships began to move as well, leading their respective fleets out of the docks.
High above, in the observation dome, Perturabo watched the fleet depart, his sister and brother at his side.
"Abo."
Calliphone called to him softly.
Perturabo turned to look at her.
"Are you truly going to let them fight this war?" Anxiety flickered in her eyes. "They've only trained for three months. More than half of them were still children three months ago. Are they really ready?"
Perturabo did not answer. In his eyes flickered worry and dread — but also pride, and hope.
"Choosing to become an Iron Warrior means their lives are forever bound to war — ranging across the galaxy to protect mankind. This is what every Iron Warrior will face in the days ahead."
Calliphone and Andros asked nothing more.
They had both noticed that Perturabo's index finger had trembled — just once, very slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Come back alive."
Every Iron Warrior aboard the ships suddenly went still. The voice that appeared in their minds was unmistakably familiar.
They looked at the brothers beside them and found that everyone — fellow warriors, Iron Guard, auxilia — wore that same momentary dazed expression.
No one said anything. They simply stood in silence within the fleet.
Some quietly saluted in the direction of Olympia before returning to their duties.
The fleet slowly accelerated, and gradually vanished into the brilliance of the stars.
IX.
Eleven star systems, arranged in a chain. The nearest to Olympia was the Sork-Prime System — the Sork capital system, and the most heavily defended region.
It was the system of a red dwarf star, with eight planets. The two innermost were blazing rock worlds with surface temperatures in the hundreds of degrees — inhospitable to any life. The third was a gas giant of enormous size, with dozens of moons. The fourth and fifth planets lay in the habitable zone, with suitable temperatures and atmospheres — the primary inhabited worlds of the Sork Empire.
At this moment, in the orbit of the fourth planet, a massive xenos fleet was on patrol.
It was a fleet of several hundred xenos warships. Their shapes resembled giant crustaceans — surfaces covered in thick organic armor, their hull plating studded with bioluminescent markings and tentacle-like appendage structures. Their sizes varied widely; the largest rivaled human battleships in scale, while the smallest were no bigger than sword-class frigates.
The Krathos were a species with a highly advanced biological technology. Their warships were bio-weapons cultivated from living tissue. High-density alloys fused with the bodies of unknown organisms, and even now massive tendrils could be seen writhing along their hulls.
On the surface of the fourth planet, a vast city of fused biology and metal stood near the equatorial plains.
It was a complex of structures made primarily from living tissue — towering spires stretching toward the heavens like enormous tentacles, pulsing conduits snaking across the ground, vast chambers nurturing countless Krathos within.
At the city's center stood an even larger bio-structure.
This was the lair of the Krathos queen. Immense tentacles coiled around the steel, and countless pockmarks on its surface periodically vented hot, acrid red liquid that reeked faintly of sulfur.
A living structure exceeding five kilometers in diameter, its surface dense with breathing pores and sensory organs. The queen lay within her vast nest, and countless delicate tendrils extended from her body — connecting to every corner of the city, to every warship in orbit, to every Krathos in the system.
She was enormous and bloated, hideous, her entire form oozing revolting red pus. Her gaping maw was filled with fangs, and crimson eyes covered her skull, which bore four distinctive horns.
She controlled the Sork-Prime System. She commanded the Krathos xenos to conquer star system after star system.
She was greedy. She needed a ceaseless flow of biomass and energy to fuel her own unending reproduction — to maintain her grip on power, to satisfy her near-infinite hunger to devour and kill.
Ten thousand years ago, she had known something was wrong with her — she had not always looked like this, had not always been so hideous, her desires had not always burned so fierce.
But ever since she had come into contact with something unspeakable in this place, multiple forces had been influencing her thoughts — even her physical form.
Ten thousand years had passed. She had become what she was now. Her mind was long since a muddled pulp, with nothing remaining but some vestigial instinctual memories and the endless hunger to kill and consume. This had driven her to reshape the others of her kind in this system into what they were now.
They conquered for her. They killed for her. They gathered all available biomass and fed it through conduits into her body in an endless stream. She was supremely lazy — she disliked moving — and only this could satisfy her many appetites.
Within these star systems, she could perceive everything. She savored the feeling of omnipotence and total control. But today, she sensed a powerful crisis.
A sense of danger she had never felt before welled up suddenly from the depths of her consciousness. It was an instinctive warning from the core of her being — the kind of intuition that had helped her escape countless encirclements by her own kind ten thousand years ago.
Something was approaching.
Something powerful. Something extraordinarily dangerous and lethal.
Her tendrils trembled faintly. Then her consciousness expanded instantly across the entire system, connecting to every warship, connecting to every Krathos.
"Enemies are intruding. Prepare for battle."
Her command rippled out to every xenos.
Their warship swarms moved to intercept. The main fleets of other systems were called back to reinforce.
The Iron Warriors' warship fleet appeared before her.
Their engines roared, jetting blazing plasma into the void, leaving brilliant streaks of light in their wake. Sensor arrays ran at full capacity, scanning every inch of space ahead. Lance arrays and macro-cannon systems entered standby, ready to fire at any moment. Plasma cannons charged to maximum power, their aim set directly on the fourth planet.
The fleet, vast and gunmetal grey, filled the queen with a profound unease.
This was the aura she had once detected in those of her own kind, long ago — dangerous. Lethal.
X.
On the bridge of the Iron Indomitable, Ferrix stood at the command console, his gaze fixed on the holographic star chart before him.
This was a real-time chart generated by the Logic Engines from reconnaissance data, displaying the Sork-Prime System in precise detail — the positions of all eight planets, the deployment of the xenos fleet, the bio-cities on the fourth and fifth planets, and innumerable biological signals in constant motion.
"Commander, the xenos fleet has detected us."
"Their fleet is repositioning and beginning to mass toward our entry point. Estimated contact with their vanguard force: four hours."
The Logic Engine delivered its report on the Krathos xenos' movements.
Ferrix nodded.
"Maintain current heading. Notify all warships to enter combat status. Lances charged, macro-cannons and torpedoes ready, shields preheated to maximum power."
His voice was calm and unwavering — no tension, no hesitation.
Years of crusade campaigning and months of brutal training had made scenarios like this second nature. He had faced this many times before, and under far more disadvantageous conditions.
"Pass the following to all warships."
Ferrix continued.
"Per the planned approach: once we enter the Sork-Prime System, the main fleet will push directly toward the fourth planet and engage the main xenos fleet. Second Fleet will maneuver from the flanks, striking their rear. Third Fleet will disperse and search for ambushes or traps that may exist."
"Logic Engines will conduct real-time analysis of the tactical situation and provide optimal tactical recommendations. All commanders must maintain data-links with the Logic Engines to ensure information synchronization."
His eyes took on a dangerous gleam.
"Remember — our objective is the complete extermination of every Krathos xenos. There must be no survivors, and we have no use for prisoners or slaves. We are to ensure these systems are left with no xenos remnants whatsoever. You may issue Extermination Orders as circumstances dictate."
Ferrix knew perfectly well that this campaign had been launched to exterminate these xenos — colonization was secondary.
XI.
Four hours later, the First Fleet made contact with the Krathos vanguard.
It was a large fleet of eight hundred and eighty-eight xenos warships, their shapes like enormous worms, surfaces wrapped in heavy organic armor, their hulls covered in bioluminescent markings and tentacle-like appendage structures.
They were deployed in a loose formation, bearing down on the First Fleet.
"Enemy vanguard fleet entering range."
An Iron Circle operator reported.
"Lance arrays charged. Torpedoes ready."
"Macro-cannon arrays ready. Electromagnetic cannons and plasma cannons charged."
Ferrix studied those luminous points on the holographic star chart, rapidly calculating a dozen variables.
Eight hundred and eighty-eight xenos warships. Modest size. Medium speed. Unknown firepower. But according to the Logic Engine's analysis, their organic armor could absorb most of the damage from energy weapons — only sustained hits would reliably penetrate.
Their bio-weapons were similar to plasma cannons, capable of firing bolts of superheated plasma, posing a significant threat to both shields and armor.
But times had changed.
"Raise void shields."
The void shield generators of the First Fleet ignited. Twenty-two layers of shields — an almost absurd level of redundancy — enveloped each warship, stacked upon one another.
"Lances, lock on to the three foremost enemy warships."
Ferrix issued the command.
"Full-power broadside. Then detach twenty capital ships to envelop from left and right flanks, and cover their formation with torpedoes and macro-cannon fire."
At the prow of the Iron Indomitable, three colossal lance arrays began to charge. Blue-white brilliance flickered in the muzzles, growing ever brighter.
Three blinding blue beams tore through the void, crossing thousands of kilometers in an instant and striking the three foremost xenos warships with perfect precision.
The lance's power was fully revealed.
The organic armor of the first xenos warship vaporized under the lance's impact. The entire vessel was pierced through the middle; biological tissue burned, exploded, and scattered into the void.
The second warship attempted evasion, but the lance moved too swiftly. It had only managed to rotate a few degrees before the beam caught it across the broadside, shearing away a full third of its hull — the remains drifting off into the darkness.
The third warship reacted somewhat faster. An instant before the lance struck, it activated some form of bio-shield, a faint energy field shimmering across its hull that absorbed part of the impact — but the lance still penetrated, leaving a massive charred cavity in the hull.
But this was only the beginning.
Countless lances opened fire simultaneously. After just the First Fleet's first salvo, the Krathos xenos fleet had already lost at least two hundred warships.
But it was still only the beginning.
The surviving xenos warships opened fire in a frenzy. Their bio-weapons spewed blazing plasma, trailing brilliant arcs through the void as they poured toward the First Fleet.
But what good were they against twenty-two layers of void shields?
The dense energy barriers shimmered across every hull, catching the plasma bolts outside. Each impact produced only a minor ripple in the shield energy.
Meanwhile, the fleet that had detached from the First Fleet had already completed its flanking envelopment.
Now the Imperial fleet showed its true edge.
The dense broadside macro-cannon ports lining the ship hulls were a terrifying sight.
In a single salvo, tens of thousands of macro-cannon shells — each between tens and hundreds of meters in length — slammed into the Krathos xenos fleet.
Simultaneously, thousands of torpedoes launched from the human warships, swarming toward the xenos formation like a dense cloud of hornets. Their warheads were packed with high-explosive thermal charges. Guidance was handled directly by the Logic Engines — autonomously tracking targets or detonating at pre-set coordinates to create overlapping fields of fire.
Two exchanges into the engagement, the xenos fleet found itself fighting on multiple fronts and suffering catastrophic losses. The First Fleet had them encircled from every angle and was firing at full capacity, ensuring not a single xenos would survive their hands.
The xenos fleet did not retreat. They charged, frenzied, attempting to break through the First Fleet's line.
But this was nothing more than the thrashing of a cornered beast. Against the warships Perturabo had built, the Krathos xenos fleet had absolutely no capacity to fight back. Their gunfire couldn't even scuff the paintwork of the First Fleet through those multiple layers of void shields.
Watching the Krathos xenos preparing to ram directly into the First Fleet's warships in a suicidal charge, Ferrix's brow furrowed slightly.
He was confident that these xenos ships could not go toe-to-toe with the warships Father had built — but pointless losses were pointless losses. There was no need for them.
Moreover, they were no longer operating on the Imperium's supply lines. They had more than enough firepower to carpet the entire Sork Empire's eleven star systems several times over, with Father continuing to generate resources from the rear. There was simply no reason to play ramming games and boarding actions to conserve ammunition.
"Mm?"
Just as Ferrix was about to order the lance arrays and macro-cannons to deliver another salvo that would finish the Krathos once and for all, something caught his attention in the data the Logic Engine was feeding him.
Ferrix murmured.
"Logic Engine, analyze the scale of the xenos fleet's follow-on reinforcements."
"Analyzing..."
The Logic Engine's voice sounded through the communications system.
"Based on the current number of enemy vessels contacted and the speed of their reinforcement arrivals, projected total strength of the Sork Empire's reinforcement fleet is approximately twelve hundred to twelve hundred and fifty vessels. Of these, approximately one hundred and fifty are capital warships, and approximately one thousand one hundred and fifty are auxiliary warships."
The crimson lenses of Ferrix's helmet flickered with a gleam of light.
"Change of tactics."
Ferrix made his decision swiftly.
"Fleet, halt advance. Establish a defensive formation in current position. Capital ships continue harassing the enemy rear, but do not engage their main strength. Notify Second and Third Fleets to converge on our position immediately and expand their search radius — find weak points in the xenos rear."
His voice was calm, but beneath the helmet, a dangerous look had settled over his features.
"We're going to bait the big fish."