Bakka's fortress was still shrouded in the scorched aftermath of war.
Bullet scars and burns left by the powers of Chaos remained visible on its outer walls. Combat engineers had sealed the breaches torn open during the landings with prefabricated panels, but dark red rust still seeped through the seams.
Rows of servitors and staff officers bustled along the corridors inside the fortress.
Victory had not yet had time to become peace of mind. Everyone knew a much longer road lay ahead.
Lorgar stood in the deepest part of the command center.
It had once been an old command tower in Bakka's Star Fortress, now converted into his temporary strategy room.
A vast tactical table occupied the center. The Holographic Projection above its tray rotated slowly, thousands of tightly packed points of light forming a web of stars spread across the depths of space.
Those lights represented thousands of worlds, each reclaimed from Horus and his rebels. They were now nominally administered by the Word Bearers and counted among the Millennium Worlds.
Lorgar studied that web of stars, his gaze moving between the lights.
"We need soldiers."
His voice was quiet, yet it reached every officer present with perfect clarity.
His face showed neither a victor's ease nor a commander's fervor, only a realism so composed it bordered on coldness.
On the star chart projected behind him, every point of light bore a single red label: conscription.
In the end, Lorgar had only a million Space Marines at his disposal.
What truly decided the outcome of a campaign was still the tens of quadrillions of mortal soldiers.
Their flesh and blood filled the trenches. They drove tanks, operated artillery, boarded transports, and charged enemy positions even under orbital bombardment.
Without them, no matter how powerful the Space Marines were, they