The Steel Torrent of the War Hammer (Seeking Monthly Votes, Follow-up Reads, and Collections)

A massive cloud of dust rose on the horizon of the Crimson Bright Wasteland.

The thunderous roar of engines and the clanking of tracks crushing rock heralded the slowly rising silhouette of steel in the distance—the Alru Group's counterattack force had arrived.

The first to come into view were fifteen Leman Russ Tanks.

These sixty-ton steel behemoths were painted in the Alru Group's signature deep blue and silver-gray, with the gene-helix emblem entwined with a viper sprayed onto their side armor.

Their main guns were standard battle cannons, the barrels gleaming coldly in the morning light, while the heavy bolter arrays on either side of the turrets had been disengaged from safety, the muzzles swaying slightly with the movement of the hulls.

Following closely behind the tanks were five Hellhound Flame Tanks.

Further back were twenty Sentinel Mechs.

These bipedal war machines stood about four meters tall; some were equipped with heavy bolters, others carried lascannons, and the hydraulic systems at their joints emitted a rhythmic hissing sound.

Between and behind all these armored units were eight thousand fully armed soldiers.

They were no longer wearing the crude leather armor of the overseers, but the standard-issue flak armor of the Imperial Guard, with ceramic plates embedded in their chest and shoulder guards, and deep-tinted, anti-shatter glass visors on their helmets.

Each man had at least three frag grenades hanging from his belt, a field pack on his back, and a standard-issue lasgun in his hands—this was a genuine local regular army.

Most eye-catching of all were the thirty figures draped in dark purple robes on the flanks of the formation.

The space around them warped slightly, and the air was filled with a scent like ozone—the energy field unconsciously radiated by psykers.

"A psyker squad..."

Wang Zhong stood behind a high platform, observing through a simple pair of binoculars he had just exchanged from the shop, muttering, "The Alru Group really isn't sparing any expense."

"You can say that again."

Tax Brother crouched beside him, holding a modified shotgun, "The Chamber of Commerce controls most of the medical industry on Aurelian IV; money is just a number to them."

"The problem is," Xue Brother squinted, "these psykers look... not quite right."

They were indeed not right.

Normal Imperial psykers were either under tight surveillance or strictly controlled by the Empire, usually appearing with restraint collars or suppression devices.

But these thirty psykers had complex mechanical structures visible beneath their robes, like some sort of external implant, and while their eyes were covered with strips of cloth, an eerie, faint light leaked out from beneath them.

"They might be products of the local branch of the Cult of the Machine Thought."

The Mechanicus Oil-Lover on the Run analyzed in the regional channel, "According to Jeremy's intelligence, this cult specializes in combining psychic power with machinery to create so-called computational psychic thralls."

"In plain terms, they've turned human brains into biological computers, squeezing out every drop of psychic potential."

"That's fucking dark."

[Soul of Cadia] spat, "Darker than us stealing ore."

The Alru forces deployed into formation one kilometer from the refinery walls.

The tanks pushed forward in a wedge formation, the Sentinel Mechs spread out on the flanks, the infantry phalanx deployed into skirmish lines in the rear, and the psyker squad concentrated around the central command vehicle.

A Chimera Command Vehicle, painted with extra extravagance and equipped with a large communication antenna on its roof, slowly drove to the front of the formation.

The side hatch slid open, and a man stepped out.

He was about forty years old, wearing a well-tailored deep purple officer's uniform with three silver stars on his epaulets, his chest covered in various medals, mostly Distinguished Service Medals or Production Efficiency Contribution Awards issued within the Chamber of Commerce.

The most striking thing was his face:

The left half was the face of a normal, slightly bloated middle-aged man, while the right half was a precision mechanical prosthetic, with a constantly zooming red mechanical eye embedded in a golden socket.

His right hand was also mechanical, its five fingers being slender metal probes, currently tapping lightly against the hilt of the command sword at his waist.

"Caspar Alru."

"The younger brother of Kliman Alru, the current head of the Alru Group, and the Minister of the Group's Defense Department."

"A conclusion drawn from the descriptions of Alru high-level officials mentioned by the overseer we took out earlier," Wang Zhong said.

"Whoa, he's a big shot."

White Scar grinned, "How much gear will he drop if we take him out?"

"Don't think about that yet," Wang Zhong lowered his voice, "watch what he says."

Caspar Alru walked to the front of the line, his mechanical eye rotating to scan the smoking ruins within the industrial plant, the coolant flowing everywhere, and the rebels—and even more twisted figures—vaguely visible among the rubble.

His voice came through the loudspeakers on the armored vehicle, processed by a synthesizer to sound cold and metallic:

"All personnel within the plant, hear this command."

"I, Caspar Alru, by the authority vested in me by the Simans Chamber of Commerce, in the name of the legitimate ruler of Aurelian IV, and by the holy will of the Emperor of Mankind, command you."

He paused, his mechanical eye flashing red:

"Lay down your weapons, cease all resistance and acts of blasphemy, and exit the plant within three minutes to line up and surrender in the designated area."

"Submit to the purification, interrogation, and re-education procedures."

"Those who comply may be treated with leniency depending on the circumstances and be incorporated into the labor reform sequence."

"Those who resist!"

His voice rose sharply, the synthesizer emitting a piercing screech:

"Deemed heretics, traitors, and enemies of the Empire, you are to be annihilated on sight; your souls shall be banished for eternity, and your flesh cast into the reactor to be incinerated!"

"Repeat: three-minute countdown, commencing."

A massive holographic clock rose above the command vehicle, its crimson digits beginning to pulse: 02:59, 02:58...

Within the factory grounds, the three factions that had been acting with such madness underwent a bizarre transformation at this very moment.

The Siclaman rebels ceased their pursuit of the surviving overseers and began to pull back toward the core of the facility.

Those Khorne Berserkers, half of whose bodies had already mutated—their skin turning crimson, muscles bulging, and horns sprouting—let out waves of bloodthirsty roars.

Instead of continuing to hunt down the overseer guards, they gathered around the Bloodletters.

Meanwhile, in the warehouse sector where Ren was located, the Lord of Change and Mystery raised all six of its arms simultaneously, its three heads erupting into shrill laughter in unison.

Immediately following this, all the Tzeentch Horrors, as if having received an order, abandoned their harassment and flew back into the ritual perimeter.

"They stopped?"

Tax Brother widened his eyes. "They aren't fighting anymore?"

"Fighting? What's left to fight for?"

Xue Brother sneered. "The real players have arrived; the true war is about to begin."

Sure enough, an old man emerged from the ranks of the rebels, dressed in faded aristocratic attire with graying hair but sharp, piercing eyes.

He held a power sword that was ornately decorated yet clearly well-used, walking to the edge of the factory's ruined perimeter wall. Facing the direction of Alru's forces, he responded with a voice amplified by a loudspeaker:

"Caspar! You mad dog of the merchant guild's lackeys!"

"Eighty years ago, you pounced on the corpse of the Black Royal Family like hyenas, trading in betrayal and treachery to secure the status you hold today!"

"Now, it is time for you to pay your blood debt!"

The old man raised his power sword high, a blue energy field igniting along the blade:

"Descendants of Siclaman! Loyalists of the Black Royal Family! Today, we hide no longer!"

"In the name of the fallen dynasty! By every drop of blood spilled over these past eighty years! Fight! Until your final breath!"

"For the true Aurelian!"