What Does He Want To Do?

The sensor was pressed behind the ear. This ancient relic technology converted the wearer's brain activity into signals, transmitting them to the central holographic table to manipulate images, allowing them to follow the commander's field of vision.

After minor modifications, it now converted directly into digital signals, transmitted before the eyes of the guards on the front line.

When Doom accepted the Sword Seal in the palace council chamber, he had already outlined the blueprint for this war in his mind, and was gradually turning it into reality through his own methods.

Nul's Night Watchers did not know, and even he himself did not know.

As a Primarch forged by Emperor in conjunction with the Warp, adapted for any form of warfare, his innate, extraordinary understanding of war when throwing himself into battle was something no other life form could hope to match.

"Begin."

With the first order issued, the fortress command room fell into an abnormal silence; the usual sounds of relaying commands vanished entirely.

The relic technology allowed the targets and conclusions calculated by Doom's brain—utilizing nanosecond, or even near-picosecond reaction speeds, combined with the processing power of a supercomputer—to set the entire war into "motion" through digital instructions!

The battlefield, spanning nearly three hundred thousand square kilometers, was composed of complex personnel numbers and minimalist terrain lines.

In the eyes of the Night Watchers, the massive variables brought about by such complex numerical combinations were almost uncontrollable.

The vast battlefield territory meant that the numbers representing the Ork were scattered like stars; under the continuous strikes of the Night Watchers, their main forces had been broken up, and now there were only countless small gangs.

Groups of three or five, clusters of a dozen. Squads of a hundred Ork, tribes gathered by the thousands, were scattered everywhere.

The current situation was most thorny; the Ork were running rampant, spreading genetic material everywhere. If not stopped in time, the elite Night Watchers would once again fall into an endless war of attrition.

Exhausted from rushing to put out fires everywhere, only to be surrounded by endless Ork in the end—another siege beneath the city walls.

The Night Watchers were even more scattered. With a total number of less than ten thousand, there were hundred-man companies, ten-man squads, groups of two or three, and even a large number of lone Hunter.

As Doom began his control of the battlefield, the Night Watchers followed the digital commands and began to act.

Although some instructions seemed to have no practical effect, the loyal Night Watchers chose to execute them unconditionally, arriving at predetermined locations at predetermined times.

The exquisite personnel deployment, the coordination of supplies at every step, and even the calculation of every soldier's physical stamina were pushed almost to the absolute threshold.

The air in the command room, originally quiet, gradually became suffocating.

Staff members with no other work slowly gathered around the central table, watching the holographic sand table as those numbers and lines shifted and jumped frantically.

"What is he doing?" Erica asked via the communication channel, not daring to disturb him. She could not understand the details, but she knew the overall situation was changing.

"It should be a net!" Harlan's vision and command talent were not poor; it was just that his personal martial prowess overshadowed them, so he could understand the situation slightly.

Intuition told him that Doom was using the Night Watchers as a net to catch the fish and shrimp in the water.

Doom was expressionless, like a cold instruction-issuing instrument. Every second, thousands of instructions appeared in his mind and were then sent out digitally.

This was not his limit, but the battlefield resources were finite, and Doom's deployment and integration were subject to many limitations.

Even so, such incredible battlefield scheduling made the high-ranking officers in the command room feel a sense of powerlessness.

If the enemy commander on the battlefield was such an existence, how could one defeat him?

Doom felt quite bored at this moment, not even using his full strength—he had partitioned a specific area of his left brain to specialize in battlefield scheduling calculations.

Everyone thought that such high-intensity command required undivided attention, shutting off external communications to focus.

More often than not, Doom's attention was not on the battlefield, but on the communication channel, listening to his subordinates discuss him.

Weaving a fishing net?

Doom shook his head internally. What Harlan saw was the surface; the deeper things were difficult to understand.

However, it was not his fault that he could not understand; the physical and brain functions of the two were not on the same level at all.

A fishing net would have holes, and there would be many fish that slipped through. He would not let a single Ork escape to leave behind endless future troubles.

Doom preferred to compare himself to a "farmer," performing meticulous cultivation in his own backyard.

To him, the Ork were pests emerging from the soil everywhere, impossible to kill off completely.

If one were missed, it would not take long for it to breed more, continuing to erode the fields and harm the crops.

What Doom had to do now was to use a plow and the rake in his hand to turn the land over completely, carefully crushing every clod of earth, finding every single pest, and then gathering them all together.

"What is our Warlord doing?"

A Night Watcher asked his companion, panting heavily. Their entire ten-man squad had been advancing at a speed of fifty kilometers per hour for four consecutive hours.

During this time, they had eliminated several scattered groups of Ork and avoided those larger groups of Ork they had the capacity to wipe out.

"I don't know! But speak less; saving stamina is the right thing to do."

His companion shook his head, also panting heavily.

Every instruction from the Warlord pushed them to their physical limits, leaving them not a moment to rest.

But they could all feel that the current battlefield scheduling had been raised by several grades; no one and no war machine rested for a single moment.

All the tactical instructions completed by everyone contributed to a single strategic goal, and the results were astonishing.

"Sprint three kilometers to the right; eliminate a hundred-man Ork squad within one minute of engagement."

The captain's voice rang out as the new digital instruction arrived, reading the decoded order:

"By the way, avoid the current route; the Rangers' anti-gravity motorcycles are currently drawing a thousand-strong Ork force past our location."

Scenes like this were playing out across the entire battlefield, with orders transmitted rapidly and precisely every second.

The Night Watchers did not need to consider anything extraneous; the moment their stamina reached its limit, a rest order would arrive immediately.

When supplies were needed, Rangers would zip past at low altitude on anti-gravity motorcycles, dropping off provisions before hurrying away.

There was no need to wait, no need to ask.

Even the heavy-firepower war machines sometimes received inexplicable commands.

They were told what to use as a reference point, what clock position to aim at, how many degrees to elevate the muzzle, how many inches to shift, and what type of shell to fire and how many.

After completing the sequence and moving on, they would receive thanks from friendly forces minutes later, confirming that they had provided precise fire support during the recent skirmish, with the shells landing perfectly.

Such meticulous control over battlefield details left the soldiers feeling both incredulous and deeply invigorated.

With command of this caliber, how could victory not be assured?

The Night Watchers were incredibly excited, needing only to focus on the enemies before them, swinging their blades and advancing according to the tactical instructions.

In the command room, the officers overseeing the grand strategy stood there like wooden statues, stunned.

They watched the battlefield sand table as scattered Orks were driven, lured, and gradually funneled toward a small plain.

Seventy thousand Orks!

Doom glanced at the sand table; clearing out the scattered small groups and guiding the direction of the larger settlements had been intended to herd the Orks together.

The number was not far from the estimate. Doom's eyes narrowed; the first phase of the plan was complete, and it was time to begin the next!

"Champion Swordsman, Haran Ogilvy!"

For the first time—twenty hours having passed since the start of the battle—Doom finally spoke, calling for his personal guard.

"My Lord!" Haran knelt on one knee, ready to accept any command from his master.

"In past battles, you have secured countless victories and earned the title of Champion." Doom looked at his most loyal servant and issued an unexpected demand: "Now, I want you to lose!"