"You pathetic rookies! You lost that many men fighting a bunch of mortals?"
The strongest Astartes in the entire Expeditionary Force-or, more precisely, the Dreadnought Bals-was furiously dressing down the XVI Legion's recruits.
"As long as they've got a breath left, they can get back up and shoot you."
"Every corpse that still has a head gets another shot."
"That tactical codex gives you examples and lessons, not rules you have to follow blindly."
"Kill the enemy as quickly as possible on the battlefield. That's the only rule."
Standing before Bals were the Astartes sergeants who had led the earlier attack.
Their faces reddened, and they seemed to want to say something.
But faced with an Astral Claws veteran who had survived so long in Commorragh, they could hardly argue.
"Extra training starts now. Yes, right now!"
Their faces fell at once.
Even in Power Armour, they felt anything but safe facing a Dreadnought.
But they could only grit their teeth and go at him, only for Bals to use them as punching bags.
A Dreadnought looked cumbersome, and it certainly was, but its reaction speed was incredibly fast.
From a distance, Horus watched his sons go flying backward again and again, then doggedly climb to their feet and attack once more.
They needed more experience.
Not just physically or in their faith, but mentally.
He had not told them about the Black Legion. He was not ready to face that himself.
With reinforcements arriving from the expeditionary fleet, the Expeditionary Force gained more troops, and the XVI Legion's numbers swelled to three thousand.
They were still far from their glory during the Great Crusade, but reaching that point was only a matter of time.
The expeditionary fleet was now spreading outward like a blossoming flower, using Cabalide as its