Grasping the Throat

On the battlefield, veterans of the war band led the neophytes, surrounded by the Mortal Auxiliary "Spear of Hector," with the Dark Mechanicus support units bringing up the rear.

They trod upon the white ash smoldering on the ground, step by step advancing, compressing the living space of those Chaos Cultists.

As the Mortal Auxiliary wielded Grenade Launchers, they continuously fired Stasis Shells toward the rear of the crowd. The front-line soldiers greeted any enemy daring to approach with a hail of laser and solid-projectile fire.

Countless brave souls among the Chaos Cultists charged desperately, hurling spears and javelins, firing arrows from a distance. But it was all meaningless—behind them, countless tribesmen inexplicably fell unconscious; ahead, the enemy's ranged weapons shattered their ranks. Their numerical advantage evaporated, leaving them only to rout and retreat, defeat after defeat.

All the mortals wore gas masks, while the Space Marine Neophytes and Dark Mechanicus personnel were utterly indifferent to the anesthetic gas. They were like a slowly tightening net, gradually gathering the Chaos Cultists around the pyramid into its mesh.

Yet among the Spear of Hector—a light infantry force with only light transport trucks—one unit stood out: a group of cavalry riding Rift-Hoof Beasts. They too wore gas masks, armed with Stasis Grenades, Laser Pistols, and Hunting Spears bundled with directional explosives.

This creature, called a "Rift-Hoof Beast" by the locals, closely resembled the horses of Old Terra, but its hooves were split like a cow's, clearly marking it as an even-toed ungulate. After research by the Daedalus Biologus Sages, it was confirmed to be a result of human Gene-Modding during the Old Night era, with many similar breeds across the Imperium.

Unfortunately, centuries of local domestication had emphasized docility and tameness, reducing the creature's size and courage. For now, they had to be used as is; later, the Sages would employ drugs and Gene-Modding to make these beasts stronger and fearless.

As the army pressed forward, countless Tzeentch and Khorne cultists collapsed to the ground, felled by lasers or bullets. The front-line soldiers ignored these fallen, continuing their advance, while the rear methodically selected the strong and suitable, shackling them and dragging them back.

The Dark Mechanicus Magos in charge of reception showed no expression on his face, but inwardly rejoiced. They had no cloning equipment in this star system, and these captives, after modification, would become excellent Servitors to fill the resource collection stations on Limnos III, IV, and V. Higher-ups had ordered them to prioritize Limnos IV's development, since that planet was theirs. As for Limnos III, there were still over forty years left—as long as it was completed within fifty years, it wouldn't breach the contract.

Freddy drove his Assault Bike alongside two neophytes, rolling over hundreds of bodies as he quickly inspected the front line under his command. Everything was orderly. Whether Tzeentch or Khorne cultists, their fate was only to be slaughtered or captured. If not for the need to slowly collect Servitor raw materials, they could have charged straight through and annihilated these Chaos Cultists outright.

After years of training, the "Spear of Hector" was barely passable, but they still lacked any sizable artillery or armored units, and their air support consisted of only a few aircraft.

But things would gradually improve. Over the past seven years, with support from the Daedalus Forge World, their Homeworld could now produce civilian transport trucks, manufacture low-grade Flak Armour and basic Laser Guns, and ensure every soldier had a powder Autogun. The Forged Steel Lord would lead them to ever greater strength.

Once, he had been just an ordinary soldier in the Legion, obeying orders alongside Captain Peter. Over a century of service, it had been nothing but boarding actions, drops, combat, casualties, replacements—repeat, repeat, and repeat again.

He had never even piloted a Space Marine fighter or armored vehicle. He could clearly feel that the veterans in the Chapter never considered them one of their own; they were just durable Ogryns, used without regard for losses.

In truth, Freddy didn't resent his Company Commander, because the Commander's superior, the Battalion Commander, treated them the same way. The entire Legion followed suit from top to bottom.

But now, Freddy felt uneasy. He noticed that in the northern encirclement under his responsibility, there wasn't a single psyker. It was normal for Khorne cultists to lack psykers, but for Tzeentch cultists to have none at all was deeply suspicious.

Freddy knew the Lord intended to promote him. With Captain Anthony becoming the War Band Champion and bodyguard, the War Band would soon expand to half a company, inevitably creating many mid-level commanders. These squad leaders would emerge from among the veterans like him.

Freddy didn't want to disappoint the War Band's Lord. He wasn't very confident in his command abilities, so he was all the more cautious in his leadership.

Freddy stopped his half-red-stained Assault Bike amidst a pile of corpses and spoke into his helmet's communicator:

"All units halt. Maintain the line. Wait for the rear trucks to resupply ammunition and load cargo."

This wasn't a war of speed. The goal was to kill or capture every last one of these Chaos Cultists, leaving behind a clean land. Steady and methodical advance was the best strategy.

The biggest problem now wasn't weapons or ammunition—it was that the Dark Mechanicus couldn't keep up. Their transport aircraft and Servitor modification equipment were running at full capacity. Sometimes they had to halt the line and wait—wait for aircraft to free up, wait for more Servitor surgery tables to become available.

During this sudden rest period, the Mortal Auxiliary soldiers split into A and B groups. Some stood guard, while others sat on the ground, pulling out ration bars and canteens to replenish energy. The Dark Mechanicus had no such issue; they simply pumped nutrient paste down their throats, or sometimes inserted tubes directly into their stomachs—assuming they still had one.

Freddy looked at the strategic map displayed on his helmet's internal screen. From the four cardinal directions, the forces led by Lord Peter, Captain Wonaby, Brother Ivan, and himself were like four great hands, tightly gripping this crowd's throat. With just a little more pressure, they could choke them out.

Freddy turned to look at the two neophytes straddling their Assault Bikes behind him and suddenly spoke:

"Do you know why we stopped?"

The two neophytes were clearly caught off guard by the sudden question.

One of them let out an "Ah" and replied:

"Isn't it to wait for the mortals to rest?"

The other thought for a moment, then answered:

"The mortals aren't that tired yet. I think, Captain, you're waiting for the enemy to regroup. If we charge in and scatter them, they'll flee in all directions, and then we'll have to chase rats everywhere."

Freddy nodded appreciatively and said:

"Valentino Rossi, you've got a bit of talent."

Freddy pointed at the other neophyte.

"Now I'm ordering you to go to the rear supply truck, grab some Promethium, and fill up all three Assault Bikes."

The neophyte looked resigned and could only accept:

"Yes, Captain."