The orders came through the Power Armour's built-in communicators, cold and clear in every soldier's ears:
"All ground units, attention. The swarm has completed its initial assembly on the wasteland. Estimated time to contact: 3 minutes, 17 seconds. Combat objective: use the wall's firepower to maximize enemy casualties. All weapon modes authorized."
There was no feverish rallying speech, no cries invoking the Emperor's holy name, only the cold commands unique to the Men of Iron, who treated war as a purely mathematical problem.
But that was enough.
The soldiers of the Tallarn 113th Regiment silently checked their Thousand Changes weapon platforms. Their Power Armour's servos hummed softly, projecting weapon status, ammunition reserves, and squadmate positions clearly onto their retinas.
They were no longer cannon fodder in crude uniforms, relying on courage and faith to fill gaps in the line.
They were killing machines encased in advanced Power Armour, each carrying an entire arsenal—an efficient, deadly, unpredictable variable in the Men of Iron's equations of war.
Commissar Grekov stood on a projecting section of the wall, wearing a special suit of Power Armour whose colors and ornamentation matched his old commissar's uniform exactly.
In fact, the Men of Iron were even easier to deal with than he had imagined. He did not even have to worry about a Tech-Priest demanding an exorbitant fee just to repair his equipment.
He drew his Power Sword. Its blade gleamed coldly in the light of the Takk Star, and a slight flick of his wrist wreathed it in an azure disruption field.
Grekov still preferred this Imperium-made weapon to the Men of Iron's Shock Swords.
"Desert rats!"
He roared through his external speakers, his voice drowning out the distant rumble of impacts and explosions.
**"Look beneath your feet! Look behind you! There's no desert here