Iron Within, Iron Without, What a Nagging Bunch of Twisted People. (3K)

Unlike interstellar warfare in other science fiction works, no matter how much Dark Technology humanity in the Warhammer universe possesses, it always devolves into baffling boarding actions to resolve conflicts.

The root cause for this transition to boarding combat is the Warp, a sister dimension to the real world, or more precisely, the Void Shield layer capable of shunting all violent attacks into the Warp.

This thing is not like the Iron Halo worn by a Space Marine, nor is it the Ion Shield on a Knight; as long as the power output is sufficient, even if you Blast with Lance at it, it is useless. Unless your attack can overload the opponent, you have no choice but to honestly resort to boarding.

As for the fools who want to overload a planet-level Void Shield by bombing it with ships, they have long since been blown to pieces by anti-aircraft fire. Who in their right mind would use ships to bombard an Entire Planet?

But the situation is different now. Following the explosion of that High-Yield Hydrogen Bomb, a breach was Tore Open in the supposedly flawless Void Shield, giving the Atlas fleet a golden opportunity to drive straight in.

Gazing at the Mega-Hive being bombarded at the end of his line of sight, Fourth Legion commander Frix sighed helplessly, his eyes filled with regret.

"What a magnificent architectural marvel, it is just a pity it cannot be used by the Imperium. These damned human traitors!"

"Captain, our mission has been intercepted by Atlas. How are we supposed to explain this to Lord Horus?"

Frix looked displeased. He slowly swayed his neck, which was fixed in place by quick-setting foam, and lectured his adjutant, who was in even worse shape than himself—missing both hands and feet, amputated below the chest, and now a mere torso:

"Cole, are you suggesting I go reason with Lord Mordred? Do you want me to provoke that lord, have him punch my head off as if I were an enemy, and then inherit my command?"

"That is not it, Captain. I did not mean that." Cole hurriedly shook his head to explain.

"I Know you didn't have that thought. We have had 7,000 brothers Killed in Action in this campaign alone, and everyone remaining is wounded. Even if our remaining 5,000-plus men grind the enemy to death, it will 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.

Seeing no one speak, this true leader who commanded four large camps spoke up:

"It means that with over half our casualties, we will be marginalized. We will be assigned by the Moon Wolves or the Iron Hands to one cruel battlefield after another, and they will certainly be the hardest nuts to crack.

Even if we carry out every order diligently, we will not reap any honor in the end; at best, we will be tossed a bone to brush us off.

Just like how our Fourth Legion is a pack of dogs that anyone can summon with a whistle."

No one spoke to follow up. After all, lies do not hurt people; the truth is the sharp blade. A legion without a Primarch is like wild grass, and they are not the First Legion, the favorite sons among favorite sons. Who would care?

If it weren't for the fact that their Gene-Seed was not picky about its hosts, with this kind of casualty rate, the legion would have long since become an extinct group like the Son of the Emperor.

No, it would be even worse than the Son of the Emperor; at least they have found their Primarch, while theirs has yet to be found.

But even in the Fourth Legion, where everyone's personality is rigid and stiff, as long as the numbers are large enough, some spirited young men will always emerge, and there was one such person in the camp right now.

"But Captain, is there a possibility that we are not even as good as dogs?"

Hmm? (._.)

Everyone's gaze Looked Towards Cole, the torso, thinking: If you are so good at talking, why don't you shut your mouth?

However, Cole did not Realized that he had become the focus of the scene and continued to stare at the ceiling, talking non-stop:

"Actually, being a dog is quite good. After all, dogs are man's best friend. Those races called Canid Eight following our cousins are dogs, and they are even sub-humans certified by the Emperor himself. You saw it just now; they live quite comfortably.

They eat canned Grox meat, drink fresh orange juice, and use precision-crafted weapons. The most hateful thing is that they even have pocket money.

Speaking of which, before I joined the legion, I was the son of a planetary governor. Although my father found me 36 step-moms after my Mom passed away, he was truly showing Filial Piety toward me.

Not only did he give me an affluent family environment, but he also sent me into the legion. But who would have thought that becoming a Death Angel of the Emperor would still lead to being bullied.

Captain, why don't we just not go back? Anyway, they are all Primarchs; it would be better to follow Lord Mordred. At least the dogs he keeps have more status than us."

The speaker had no intention, but the listeners took it to heart. Cole's words reminded everyone. They thought it made sense. Where isn't the Great Crusade? Why must the Primarch choose the men, and not the men choose the Primarch?

"But Cole, you also know we don't have a Primarch. Aren't you afraid that things will be even worse after we defect to Atlas? What if..."

"There are no 'what ifs'. The Boss is our Chieftain. I even held him when he was a kid. He is not that kind of person!"

"Who?" A group of Tin Can Kid soldiers missing arms and legs Looked Towards their surroundings, searching for the source of the voice, and finally looked at the ammunition box in the corner.

Seeing that she had been exposed, a female Canid with a black-and-white coat crawled out of the box and wobbled over to the group.

"Holy crap, a dog!"

Looking at this strange-looking dog wearing a piece of high-end custom Power Armor, Frix was very curious. How did such a big dog hide herself? This was simply unscientific.

"What are you looking at, you shorty? I am Casca, one of the Canid Eight, known as the Shadow Hunter. But I prefer people to call me the Pirate Dog Lady.

What? You ignorant little tin cans want to defect to our Atlas?"

Frix did not answer immediately, but looked outside the door. After confirming that no one was eavesdropping, he replied:

"We have that intention."

"What do you mean 'have that intention'? Either you do or you don't. Why are you so indecisive? It's a good thing there's no one like you in my clan, or it would be a disgrace."

Leaning over to the hospital bed, Casca grabbed Frix's precision-crafted Bolter Pistol and tucked it into her pocket very smoothly, completely ignoring the fact that his face was gradually turning black.

"The gun is nice; consider it a gift from you. But I won't take it for nothing; I can tell you a piece of good news in advance."

Between his sidearm and intelligence, Frix decisively chose intelligence, and incidentally reached out to snatch Cole's sidearm as well. Anyway, this kid was probably going to end up in a Dreadnought, so it was better to let it go to waste on him.

"What is it?"

"The Boss came here this time just for you lot. Once this sub-sector is pacified, your fleet will be entirely commanded by the smart kid Goff."

Hearing a new name, Frix really wanted to ask who this smart kid was, but the Canid guessed he would be confused and directly brushed it off with one sentence.

"Goff is the Second Company Captain of our legion. Don't ask why a Second Company Captain is commanding a Primarch; we at Atlas have our own national conditions. You just need to know that you'll be hanging out with us from now on.

But our Boss believes in mutual consent and never forces others. He is currently having a blast hacking people to pieces and doesn't have time to come over."

Perhaps suddenly recalling something, the Dog-men took two parchment letters from his pouch and handed them to the hesitant Civil Engineering Brother.

"The one on top details the Welfare Benefits of our legion, and the one below is a letter entrusted to me by someone Named Kyle. Since you are all Space Marine, as long as you join, you will all enjoy the benefits of Recruits."

What? Recruits! Who do you think you're looking down on? We are a battalion of veterans; we are the elite!

Glancing at the Space Marine who spoke, lingering particularly on his severed leg, Casca let out a cold snort:

"You have the nerve to call yourselves elite? Look at the mess you've made of this battle; there isn't a shred of the art of war in it. You are Space Marine, yet you insist on trading fire with the enemy's idiotic heavy artillery? I've never seen anyone so rigid. I've read your combat logs—it's all thirty-year-old tactics. Times have changed, kid! Even a Dog-men like me knows how to learn new things."

"Listen up, as long as you defect to the Boss, not only are room and board fully covered and weapons provided in abundance, but you are allowed to attend all military meetings. There's also disability leave and all sorts of free medical augmentations. In short, there's too much to list; see for yourself."

With that, the Dog-men turned and walked away, vanishing the moment he stepped into the shadows, leaving the camp entirely.

With no outsiders present, the several missing-limbed Space Marine felt much more at ease and began to browse the so-called benefits document.

A minute later, the soldier who had protested earlier scratched his head, his expression slightly awkward.

"Well, come to think of it, everyone starts out as a Recruits at some point. I actually think these benefits are pretty good."

It was more than just good. Because their numbers were small and he had a bit of capital, Mordred had directly copied his military career from his past life, creating an extreme recreation that even included a Friday mess hall feast.

Not to mention that their Atlas was determined to become a Galactic Mega-corporation, so there was no shortage of weapons and equipment; the gear was literally waiting for the men. Even the Welfare Benefits for the Auxilia were better than those of other legions.

Frix was wavering, but his pride still kept the scales from tipping completely. Just as he was hesitating, he opened the letter Kyle had sent him.

The mere half-page of content made him jealous enough to die. That Bastard Kyle was actually living the life he had dreamed of and had even become the chief engineer of Atlas.

Talking about how the Primarch was going to erect a statue of him at the starport—it would be one thing if everyone was suffering, but how are you living so comfortably?

"No, I Absolutely Cannot let this kid hog all the good stuff. Brothers, Gathered the troops quickly! I must let His Highness Mordred see our capabilities. We are the elite battalion! We are the best."

And just as the Grinder Boys began to strive for the sake of competing for meal replacements, a big guy far away in Olympia suddenly felt a hollow sensation in his heart, a strange feeling that a toy that should have belonged to him had been Snatch Away.

This sudden change caused him to lose focus for a moment, and he accidentally crushed the stone statue's arm in his hand, drawing concern from his Younger Brother:

"Younger Brother, your statue."

But this concern did not soothe the giant's mood; instead, it exacerbated his Internal Strife. He roared:

"Shut up! I don't need your reminders. Do you think you've won? Impossible. I am Perturabo, and I will not lose."