Unlike the interstellar wars in other science-fiction works, no matter how much Dark Technology humanity possessed in the Warhammer universe, things would ultimately devolve into baffling boarding actions to settle the matter.
The fundamental reason all battles turned into boarding actions was the Warp, which existed as a sister to the real world—or, more precisely, the Void Shield layer that could divert all devastating attacks into the Warp.
This thing was unlike the Iron Halo worn by Space Marines or the Ion Shield on a Knight. As long as it had enough power, even blasting it with a Blast with Lance would be useless. Unless the attack could overload the opponent, they could only honestly go boarding.
As for the idiots who wanted to use ships to bombard a planet-wide Void Shield until it overloaded, anti-aircraft fire had already blown them apart in midair. What sane person used a ship to trade fire with an entire planet?!
But the situation was different now. With the explosion of that High-Yield Hydrogen Bomb, a breach had been torn in the previously flawless Void Shield, giving the Atlas fleet an excellent opportunity to charge straight in.
Gazing at the Mega-Hive at the end of his line of sight as it was relentlessly bombarded, Frix, the commander of the Fourth Legion, sighed helplessly. His eyes were filled with regret.
"What a magnificent architectural miracle. What a pity it can't be used by the Imperium. Damn these human traitors!"
"Captain, our mission was snatched away by Atlas. How are we supposed to explain this to Lord Horus?"
Frix looked displeased. He slowly moved his neck, which had been fixed in place with quick-setting foam, and lectured his adjutant, who was in even worse shape than he was. Missing both hands and feet and amputated below the chest, the man had already become a "fine young lad":
"Cole, do you want me to go argue with Lord Mordred, make that lord furious, get him to punch my head off as if I were an enemy, and then have him inherit my command?"
"No, Captain. That wasn't what I meant." Cole hurriedly shook his head and explained.
"I know that wasn't what you meant. Seven thousand brothers were Killed in Action in this battle alone, and everyone left is wounded. Even if the remaining five thousand-plus of us wear the enemy down to death, it'll still be a pyrrhic victory. Do you know what that means?"
Frix's voice was not loud, but every Space Marine in the camp could hear him. They all knew the answer.
When no one spoke, the true leader who commanded four great battalions spoke up:
"It means that, with more than half our forces suffering casualties, we'll be marginalized. The Moon Wolves or the Iron Hands will assign us to one brutal battlefield after another, and they'll definitely be the hardest worlds to crack.
"Even if we conscientiously complete every order, we won't receive any honor in the end. At best, we'll be tossed a bone to placate us.
"Just like our Fourth Legion is a bunch of dogs anyone can summon with a 'here, boy, here, boy.'"
No one spoke in response. Lies did not hurt people; the truth was the sharpest blade. A Legion without a Primarch was like wild grass. They were not the First Legion, the Emperor's favorite among favorites. Who would care about them?
If their Gene-Seed had not been so undiscerning, then with this casualty rate, the Legion would have become a dead-end force like the Son of the Emperor long ago.
No, they would have been even worse off than the Son of the Emperor. At least the latter had already found its Primarch. Theirs still had not been found.
But even in the Fourth Legion, where everyone's personality was rigid and inflexible, enough people would produce a few spirited youths. There happened to be one such person in the camp.
"But Captain, is it possible that we're actually worse than dogs?"
Hmm? (._.)
Everyone's eyes turned toward Cole, that "fine young lad," wondering why, if he was so good at talking, he didn't just shut his mouth.
Cole, however, had no idea he had become the center of attention and continued staring at the ceiling as he spoke:
"Actually, being a dog is pretty good. Dogs are humanity's best friends, after all. Those races called Dog-men who follow our cousins around are dogs. They're even abhumans certified by the Emperor himself. You all saw them just now—they're living incredibly comfortable lives.
"They eat Grox meat from cans, drink fresh orange juice, and use masterwork weapons. Worst of all, they even get pocket money.
"Speaking of which, before I joined the Legion, I was the son of a planetary governor. Although after my mother died, my father found me thirty-six stepmothers, he was genuinely Filial Piety toward me.
"He gave me an excellent home environment and even sent me into the Legion. But who would have thought that becoming one of the Emperor's Death Angels would still mean getting bullied?
"Captain, how about we just don't go back? We're all Primarchs' sons anyway. Why not follow Lord Mordred? At least the dogs he keeps have higher status than we do."
The speaker had meant nothing by it, but the listeners took his words to heart. They thought it made sense. Wherever they went, they would still be taking part in the Great Crusade. Why could only the Primarchs choose people? Why couldn't they choose their Primarch?
"But Cole, you know we don't have a Primarch. Aren't you afraid things will be even worse after we defect to Atlas? What if—"
"There's no what-if. The boss is our Chieftain. I even carried him when he was little. He isn't that kind of person!"
"Who?"
A group of Canned Ones missing arms and legs looked around, searching for the source of the voice. In the end, their gazes landed on the ammunition crate in the corner.
Seeing that she had been exposed, a female Dog-man with black-and-white fur crawled out of the crate and staggered over to the group.
"Holy shit, a flashy dog!"
Looking at the strange dog wearing a suit of high-end custom Power Armor, Frix was extremely curious. How had such a huge dog hidden itself? It made no sense at all.
"What are you looking at, you short turnip? I'm Casca, one of the Canid Eight, known as the Shadow Hunter. But I'd rather people call me Pirate Dog Lady.
"What? You ignorant little Canned One wants to defect to our Atlas?"
Frix did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked toward the doorway. Only after confirming that no one was eavesdropping did he reply:
"I'm considering it."
"What do you mean, 'considering it'? Either you are or you aren't. Why are you being so fussy? It's a good thing my clan doesn't have trash like you, or we'd be disgraced."
Moving beside the sickbed, Casca snatched Frix's masterwork Bolter Pistol and smoothly stuffed it into her pocket, completely ignoring the way his face was gradually turning dark.
"Nice gun. I'll take it as a gift. But I won't take it for free. I can give you some good news in advance."
Between his issued weapon and information, Frix decisively chose the information. He reached out and snatched Cole's issued weapon as well. That kid was probably going to become a Dreadnought anyway, so he might as well let Frix benefit from it.
"What is it?"
"The boss came this time specifically for you. Once this sub-sector has been reclaimed, your entire fleet will be placed under the command of the smart lad Goff."
Hearing another unfamiliar name, Frix wanted to ask who this smart lad was, but the Dog-man had already guessed he would be confused and brushed it off with a single sentence.
"Goff is our Legion's Second Company Captain. Don't ask why a Second Company Captain is commanding a Primarch. Atlas has its own national circumstances. You only need to know that you'll be working with us from now on.
"But our boss believes in mutual consent and never forces anyone. He's having too much fun chopping people up right now, so he doesn't have time to come over."
Perhaps she had suddenly remembered something, the Dog-man took two letters written on parchment from her belt pouch and handed them to the hesitant construction worker.
"The one on top explains our Legion's benefits. The one below is a letter someone named Kyle asked me to deliver to you. Since you're all Space Marines, you'll receive the new-recruit benefits if you join."
What? New-recruit benefits! Were they looking down on them? They were veterans of the First Company, the elite!
Casca glanced at the Space Marine who had spoken, lingering particularly on his severed leg for a moment, then snorted.
"You have the nerve to call yourselves elite? Look at the mess you made of this battle. You don't have the slightest idea of the art of war. You're Space Marines—did you really have to trade fire with the other side's brainless heavy artillery?
"I've never seen anyone so rigid. I looked over your battle records. They're completely based on tactics from thirty years ago. Times have changed, kid! Even a Dog-man like me knows to learn new things."
"Listen up. If you defect to the boss, not only will your food and lodging be fully covered and your weapons supplied without limit, you'll also be allowed to attend every military meeting. You'll get recuperation leave for the disabled and all sorts of free medical augmentations. There's too much to explain. Read it yourself."
With that, the Dog-man turned and left. The instant she stepped into the shadows, she vanished without a trace, leaving the camp.
With no outsiders present, the several Space Marines missing arms and legs relaxed considerably and began reading the so-called benefits description.
A minute later, the soldier who had protested earlier scratched his head, his expression slightly embarrassed.
"Well, when you put it that way, everyone started as a new recruit, right? I think these benefits are pretty good."
They were more than good. Because their numbers were small, Mordred, who had some capital to spare, had directly copied his military career from his previous life and recreated it in extreme detail—even the weekly Friday mess dinner was included.
Not to mention that Atlas was determined to become a Galactic Mega-corporation. Weapons and equipment were not in short supply at all; they were literally waiting for personnel. Even the benefits for the Auxilia were better than those of the other Legions.
Frix began to waver, but his pride still kept the scales from tipping completely. As he hesitated, he opened the letter Kyle had sent him.
The contents filled barely half a page, yet they made him green with envy. That bastard Kyle had actually obtained the life Frix had dreamed of and even become Atlas's chief engineer.
Apparently, the Primarch was going to erect a statue of him at the starport. Everyone else was suffering together, so how could Kyle be living so comfortably?
"No. I absolutely can't let that kid enjoy everything alone.
"Brothers, assemble the troops! I have to show Lord Mordred what we're capable of. We're the elite of the First Company! We're the best!"
Just as the Grinder Boys began working hard to fight for a substitute meal, a huge man far away on Olympia suddenly felt empty inside, with the strange sensation that a toy that should have belonged to him had been snatched away.
This sudden change distracted him for an instant. One careless move, and he crushed the arm of the stone statue in his hand, prompting concern from his brother:
"Little brother, your statue."
But that concern did not ease the giant's emotions. Instead, it intensified his mental turmoil. He suddenly roared:
"Shut up! I don't need your reminder. Do you think you've won?
"Impossible. I am Perturabo. I will not lose."
Before you continue