He Was Going to Do What

The sensor adhered to the back of the ear. This ancient relic technology converted the wearer's brain activity into signals and transmitted them to the central holographic platform to control the images, allowing them to follow the commander's field of vision.

After a minor modification, it now directly converted the activity into digital signals and transmitted them before the eyes of the guards on the front line.

When Doom accepted the Sword Seal in the royal palace's council chamber, he had already sketched out the blueprint for this war in his mind. He was now turning it into reality step by step, in his own way.

Nul's Night Watchers did not know. Even he himself did not know.

Created by the Emperor in conjunction with the Warp and adapted to every form of warfare, a Primarch possessed an innate and extraordinary understanding of war when he entered the battlefield—something no other form of life could hope to match.

"Begin."

As the first order was issued, the fortress command room fell into an unusual silence. The sounds of orders being relayed that had filled it before vanished completely.

The relic technology took the targets and conclusions calculated by Doom's nanosecond, and even near-picosecond, reaction speed and his supercomputer-like processing ability, then used digital commands to set the entire war in motion!

The battlefield, nearly three hundred thousand square kilometers in size, consisted of complicated personnel figures and simple terrain lines.

In the eyes of the Night Watchers, the enormous number of variables brought by such a complex combination of figures was almost impossible to control.

Across the vast battlefield, the Orks appeared as a dense spread of numbers. Under the Night Watchers' sustained attacks, their main forces had been broken apart, leaving only countless small groups.

Three or five together, more than ten in a group. Squads of over a hundred Orks and tribes numbering over a thousand were scattered everywhere.

The current situation was extremely troublesome. The Orks were scattering genetic material everywhere. If they were not stopped in time, the elite Night Watchers would once again be dragged into an endless war of attrition.

They would be worn out rushing from one fire to another, then surrounded by endless Orks, leading to another siege beneath the city walls.

The Night Watchers were even more scattered. Fewer than ten thousand remained: companies of a hundred, squads of ten, pairs and trios, and even large numbers of lone hunters.

As Doom began taking control of the battlefield, the Night Watchers followed the digital commands and started moving.

Although some orders had no practical effect whatsoever, the loyal Night Watchers carried them out unconditionally, arriving at their designated positions at the appointed times.

The exquisite deployment of personnel, the coordination of supplies at every step, and even the calculations of each soldier's stamina were all pushed almost to the absolute limit.

The formerly quiet air in the command room gradually became suffocating.

Those with no other duties slowly gathered around the central table, watching the holographic projection of the battlefield. The figures and lines shifted and jumped wildly.

"What is he doing?" Erica asked over the communications channel. She did not dare speak aloud and disturb him. She could not understand the details, but she knew the overall situation was changing.

"It should be a net!" Haran's vision and talent for command were not lacking; they had simply been overshadowed by his personal martial prowess. He could understand the situation to some extent.

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

Doom's face was expressionless, like a cold machine issuing commands. Every second, thousands of orders appeared in his mind and were then sent out digitally.

This was not his limit. The battlefield's resources were limited, placing many restrictions on Doom's deployment and coordination.

Even so, such unbelievable battlefield management left the senior officers in the command room feeling utterly powerless.

If the enemy commander on the battlefield was an existence like this, how could they possibly defeat him?

Doom found the process rather boring at that moment. He was not even exerting himself fully—he had simply designated an area in his left brain for battlefield deployment calculations.

Everyone assumed that such high-intensity command required absolute concentration, with all external communications shut off.

Most of the time, Doom's attention was not on the battlefield. He was listening to his subordinates discuss him over the communications channel.

Weaving a fishing net?

Doom shook his head inwardly. What Haran saw was only the surface. The deeper truth was difficult to understand.

But he could not blame Haran for failing to understand. Their bodies and brain functions were on completely different levels.

A fishing net would have holes. How many fish would slip through? He would not let a single Ork escape and leave behind endless trouble.

Doom would rather compare himself to a "farmer," carefully cultivating his own backyard.

To him, the Orks were pests constantly emerging from the soil—pests that could never be eradicated by killing them one by one.

If even one slipped through, it would reproduce more in no time, continuing to gnaw away at the fields and damage the crops.

What Doom was doing now was using his plow and rake to turn over the land completely, meticulously breaking apart every clod of earth, finding every pest, and then gathering them all together.

"What is our Warlord trying to do?"

A Night Watcher gasped as he asked his companion. Their entire ten-man squad had advanced continuously for four hours at a speed of fifty kilometers per hour.

During that time, they had wiped out several scattered groups of Orks while avoiding the larger groups they were capable of exterminating.

"I don't know! But saying less and saving our strength is the right thing to do."

His companion shook his head, equally out of breath.

Every command from the Warlord pushed them close to the limits of their physical abilities, leaving them no chance to stop for even a moment.

Yet they could all feel that the battlefield coordination had risen by several levels. Not a single person or piece of war machinery had stopped for even an instant.

Every tactical command they completed contributed to a single strategic objective, and the results were astonishing.

"Charge three kilometers to the right and eliminate a hundred-Ork squad within one minute of making contact."

The captain's voice rang out as a new digital command arrived. He read the translated instruction aloud:

"Also, avoid the current route. A Rangers' anti-gravity motorcycle is drawing a thousand Orks past our position."

Scenes like this were occurring across the entire battlefield. Every second, commands were transmitted with speed and precision.

The Night Watchers did not need to consider anything unnecessary. When their stamina reached its limit, an order to rest arrived immediately.

When supplies were needed, Rangers riding anti-gravity motorcycles would skim past at low altitude, drop the supplies, and hurriedly depart.

There was no need to wait or ask questions.

Even war machines carrying heavy firepower sometimes received inexplicable orders.

Using what as a reference point, at what clock position ahead, how many degrees to raise the barrel, how many inches to shift it, what type of shell to use, and how many rounds to fire.

After completing the series of actions and continuing onward, they would receive the thanks of allied forces a few minutes later. They had received precise fire support in the battle just now, and the shells had landed with perfect accuracy.

Such meticulous control over battlefield details was unbelievable to the soldiers, while also filling them with excitement.

With command of this caliber, how could victory not come?

The Night Watchers were tremendously excited. They only needed to focus on the enemies before them, swing the blades in their hands, and advance according to the deployment orders.

In the command room, the officers surveying the entire battlefield stood there like wooden figures, staring blankly.

On the battlefield display, the scattered Orks were driven, lured, and gradually gathered toward a small plain.

Seventy thousand Orks!

Doom glanced at the battlefield display. He had eliminated the scattered small groups and guided the larger settlements' direction of advance. His purpose was to gather the Orks together.

The number was not far from his estimate. Doom's eyes sharpened. The first stage of the plan was complete. It was time to begin the next stage!

"Champion Swordsman, Haran Ogilvy!"

For the first time since he had begun directing the battlefield twenty hours ago, Doom spoke and called for his guard.

"My lord!" Haran dropped to one knee, prepared to accept any command from his master.

"In your battles of the past, you gained countless victories and earned the name of Champion Swordsman." Doom looked at his most loyal servant and voiced an unexpected demand: "Now, I want you to lose!"

(Sorry, I had a lot going on today, so this came a little late.)