Artillery Barrage

The Lord of Change and Mystery turned its three heads simultaneously toward the direction of the Alru forces, the artifacts held in its nine arms flickering with an eerie blue light.

"Caspar Alru..."

Beside it, Ren's voice carried the pleasure of a conspiracy coming to fruition, "The hounds of the merchant guild... they finally caught the scent of blood and came running..."

"Perfect..."

The eye on one of the Lord of Change and Mystery's heads suddenly burst, transforming into a swirling nebula that reflected the real-time status of the entire battlefield:

Fifteen Leman Russ Tanks advanced in a wedge formation, their barrels spitting tongues of fire incessantly.

Five Hellhound Flame Tanks provided heavy fire support from the rear.

Twenty Sentinel Mechs prowled the flanks to hunt, and eight thousand infantry surged forward like a tide...

Within the industrial zone, the defensive line constructed by the Siclaman rebels amidst the ruins was being gnawed away bit by bit by the artillery fire.

The followers of Khorne and that Bloodletter had already engaged the Alru vanguard, the collision of flesh and metal erupting into a sky-filling mist of blood.

Its own Tzeentch Horrors were weaving interference fields in the sky, causing Alru soldiers to be inexplicably struck by friendly fire due to the spatial distortions...

"Everything is within calculations..."

Ren whispered in unison, "Eighty years of dormancy... infiltration... waiting..."

"Let it begin tonight... the winds of change... shall blow across all of Aurelian..."

On the other side of the battlefield, Caspar Alru stood beside his command vehicle, the red light of his mechanical prosthetic eye scanning the field at a frequency of thirty times per second.

Data streams cascaded like a waterfall across the visual interface on the left side of his vision:

[Target Identification: Siclaman rebel main force, approx. 3,300 personnel, Equipment Level: 3.2]

[Target Identification: Heretical corruption units, approx. 540 personnel, Mutation Level: 47%]

[Target Identification: Heretical corruption units, approx. 110 personnel, Psyker Reading: High Risk]

[Special Target: Heretical entity, Threat Level: 7]

[Special Target: Heretical entity, Threat Level: 6]

"Threat Level 7..."

Caspar's mechanical fingers tapped rhythmically against the hilt of his command saber, producing a steady clack-clack sound.

"It seems those useless fools in intelligence were right about at least one thing."

He raised his mechanical right hand, five metal probes tapping in the air, each one opening a new communication channel:

"First through Third Tank Squadrons, maintain wedge formation, prioritize main gun fire on rebel fortifications."

"Fourth and Fifth Squadrons, flank to the left, suppress the charge route of the red heretical units."

"Sentinel Mech cluster, advance in dispersed formation, use mobility to tear through the heretical field coverage."

"Infantry Battalions One through Four, follow up and sweep the area, leave no survivors."

"Psyker squad..."

He paused, looking toward the thirty figures draped in purple robes:

"Activate the Mind Weaver, target: blue heretic, interfere with its spellcasting stability."

The orders were transmitted to every combat unit within 0.3 seconds.

The advance of the Alru forces instantly shifted from a surging tide into the precise meshing of gears.

The fifteen Leman Russ Tanks split into three arrowheads, their main guns firing in a rhythm of one shot every five seconds.

The impact points of the shells were strictly calculated, not to maximize casualties, but to dismantle the rebels' defensive system, collapse bunkers, block passages, and create walls of fire.

The main guns of the five Hellhound Flame Tanks locked onto a more troublesome target.

The turrets rotated slowly, their sights fixed on the three frantically spinning heads of the Lord of Change and Mystery.

"Distance: 1,200 meters."

"Wind speed: Negligible."

"Target psyker interference level: High."

"Ballistic correction calculated... complete."

The gunner pressed the firing button.

"BOOM!"

Two specialized psyker-interference shells trailed eerie purple exhaust, streaking toward the target in a near-straight line!

The three heads of the Lord of Change and Mystery turned toward the incoming shells simultaneously, and one of the nine arms raised a mirror.

The mirror reflected the trajectory of the shells, and then... the trajectory began to warp.

The shells that should have hit their mark suddenly veered off at the final fifty meters, grazing the side of the demon and slamming into the ruins of a warehouse behind it, kicking up a sky of dust.

"Tch."

The red light in Caspar's mechanical eye flickered, "So it really doesn't work."

He switched channels: "Psyker squad, execute Plan B."

Thirty figures draped in purple robes looked up in unison.

Beneath the blindfolds covering their eyes, an eerie, faint glow suddenly intensified.

The air began to fill with a different kind of psychic fluctuation—not the treacherous, shifting nature of Tzeentch, nor the frenzied bloodlust of Khorne.

It was a cold, mechanical sense of order, precise enough to make one's scalp tingle.

These computational psychic thralls, modified by the Cult of the Machine Thought, had long since had their emotional centers excised and replaced with intricate calculation arrays.

Their psychic power was not meant for combat, but for... deconstruction.

Thirty invisible threads of psychic energy reached out simultaneously, piercing the energy structure of the Tzeentchian field with the precision of a scalpel.

They were not engaging in a brute-force confrontation, but rather seeking nodes, analyzing frequencies, and calculating resonance points...

And then, interfering.

"Hum!"

The blue force field covering half the factory area suddenly fluctuated violently!

The degree of spatial distortion became unstable, waxing and waning in intensity.

The tracks of the three trapped Leman Russ Tanks sank abruptly, and their forward speed recovered by thirty percent!

"The creations of the Mechanicus... are always so... tedious."

The three heads of the Lord of Change and Mystery shrieked in simultaneous annoyance.

It raised the scepters held in its nine arms, aiming toward the psyker squad, and began to weave a new spell.

But it was already too late.

"Holy shit! This artillery! This barrage! Is this really the kind of scene that belongs in a newbie zone?!"

Did White Scars speed today crouched behind a makeshift barricade, watching a tank shell explode thirty meters away as the shockwave sent debris clattering against the metal crate above his head.

They were currently positioned at the entrance of the raw material transport tunnel in the northwest corner, a spot that had originally been a relatively safe area.

But the artillery and firepower of Alru's forces were simply too intense.

Some shells veered off their intended targets, some stray rounds flew everywhere, and even more terrifying were the projectiles whose trajectories had been warped by the Tzeentchian field—you never knew where they might fly.

"Stop the chatter! Speed it up!"

Wang Zhong kicked a worker who was too terrified to enter the pipe, sending him stumbling directly inside.

"Those in the back! Keep up! If you don't want to be blown into mincemeat, get crawling!"

A long line had already formed in front of the tunnel entrance, with over four thousand workers, organized by the players, crawling one by one into the one-meter-diameter metal pipe.

But the speed was still too slow.

The space inside the pipe was limited, allowing only five people to crawl through at a time, and with some sections at risk of collapse, the players had to leave people inside to reinforce the route along the way.

At this rate, it would take at least another half hour for everyone to pass through.

And the advance speed of Alru's forces clearly would not grant them half an hour.

"Bang!"

A dull thud echoed.

A middle-aged worker at the end of the line suddenly stiffened, looking down at his chest.

A bowl-sized blood hole had exploded there, the edges charred black, with light faintly visible through the other side.

It was a stray bullet, flying from an unknown direction, that had struck true.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but only blood foam bubbled out.

Then, he collapsed straight to the ground.

"Ahhhhh!"

The surrounding workers instantly erupted!

Panic spread like a plague, and the line fell into chaos; some tried to push forward, some tried to run back, and even more collapsed to the ground, their cries and screams blending into a cacophony.

"Everyone shut the hell up!"

Tax Brother raised his shotgun and fired a shot into the air; the deafening "bang" temporarily suppressed the commotion.

He roared at the top of his lungs:

"If you want to live, stay in line! Running around will only get you killed faster!"

"Those in the back! Drag the body away! Don't block the path!"

"You lot!"

He pointed at a few players, "Go grab those who are paralyzed with fear! Throw them in!"

Violence was, at times like this, the most effective tool.