With orders given, the mass teleportation began.
The ten defensive regiments were the first to deploy, led by Duncan's 87th.
They materialized just outside their assigned defensive positions, their arrival marked by flashes of violet-edged light. Without hesitation, they moved into formation, heavy boots thundering over cracked ferrocrete, fortifying their zones and assisting in the evacuation of panicked, shell-shocked civilians.
Meanwhile, the remaining seven regiments, along with Grey and his strike team, remained stationed at the command building, waiting for their turn to be deployed.
....
The Defensive Line
Duncan's Leman Russ Command Tank roared through the ruined streets at full throttle. Its adamantium-plated hull plowed through the front of a decrepit hab-block, collapsing the facade in a thunderous crash.
With a sharp pivot, the tank rotated to face the main road, locking into position.
Powering down, it became a mobile steel bunker.
Inside, Duncan monitored the situation.
"Colonel, why aren't we attacking immediately like before?" his gunner asked, a trace of unease in his voice.
"No idea," Duncan admitted, his tone flat, unreadable.
His orders were simple. Teleport. Move into position. Fortify. Hold.
That was it.
As for higher strategic intent? Lord Commander Qin Mo hadn't said a word.
Duncan didn't care. His job wasn't to question orders, it was to execute them with precision and resolve.
He looked down at the holo-display inside his modified Leman Russ Vanquisher, a command variant that traded firepower for tactical superiority.
The command modifications included: real-time holographic battlefield overlays, advanced vox-transceivers, biometric scanners, terrain-mapping auspex, and encrypted data-links systems.
Everything a battlefield commander needed to wage war with surgical clarity.
A real-time scan of the battlefield flickered to life, a glowing web of streets, ruined hab-blocks, and shattered manufactorums spread across a two-kilometer radius, dotted with potential chokepoints and fallback paths. Duncan studied the layout, then picked up the vox-transceiver.
"First Company, take positions in the church."
"Second Company, deploy to the seventh tower from the left."
"All other companies, lock down the intersections and barricade chokepoints. Use the strongest structures for cover. Anything pre-Imperial, you dig in like it's a fortress."
His commands were relayed with the precision of a lifetime in war.
The other regiments followed similar protocols, establishing overlapping fields of fire and setting up kill zones, locking down their sectors with hardened defenses.
....
Three hours later.
The biometric scanners pulsed.
[Enemy forces detected.]
They materialized on the holo-map, their formations highlighted in crimson glyphs that flickered like bloodied runes.
Duncan's eyes narrowed. Now he understood, the reason for their defensive stance.
The traitors had adapted.
Their formations were tighter, regiments positioned closely together. If one unit came under attack, another could immediately reinforce.
If the First Legion forces had teleported in for a shock assault like before, they would have been surrounded, isolated, and annihilated.
But that didn't mean teleport tactics were useless.
The key now was chaos. Disruption. Psychological fragmentation.
The more disorganized the battlefield, the more effective teleport shock assaults would become.
Duncan keyed the vox-network.
"Enemy approaching. All squads, prepare for imminent contact. No one fires until I say."
Inside fortified buildings, First Legion troops braced their weapons, scopes locked on enemy movement. The dim interior was lit only by the amber glow of status lights and the flicker of targeting runes.
A marksman positioned in a crumbling tower spotted the first enemy in his crosshairs, but he didn't fire.
More hostiles were moving behind them.
Their heat signatures flared to life on every soldier's HUD. Even those deep inside structures, unable to see the battlefield, could track enemy outlines through the walls.
Duncan's voice crackled across the vox.
"Fire at will."
The First Legion line detonated into motion.
Lascannon blasts, bolter volleys, and artillery rounds tore through the enemy ranks. Tanks hidden within ruined buildings unleashed coordinated cannon fire, reducing entire squads to vaporized remains.
The first wave of traitors was shredded.
Even though the traitors had anticipated an ambush, the ferocity of the First Legion counterattack still caught them off guard.
Only after sustaining crippling losses did the enemy fall back, seeking cover at the outskirts of the defensive perimeter.
Then, from the rear of the First Legion position, the artillery opened fire.
Explosions erupted among the traitor regiments, tearing apart squads before they could regroup.
Duncan's sector had fired the first shot.
Now, across multiple defensive zones, the other First Legion regiments joined the battle, triggering full-scale engagements.
Meanwhile…
The remaining seven regiments were teleported into the enemy's flanks and rear, launching surgical strikes and probing for weaknesses, sowing discord in an already faltering offensive.
....
The Spire, Enemy Command Center
Atop the Governor's Throne, Venomfang sat cross-legged, observing the battlefield through his psychic sight.
A lowly aide approached.
"We've engaged the enemy," the aide reported.
Venomfang didn't even open his eyes.
"Do you think I'm blind?" he sneered, dismissing the aide with a lazy wave.
Thanks to the Blessing of the Lord of Wisdom, he could see through the eyes of every soldier on the battlefield, their vision braided into his own through threads of warp-sorcery.
And what he saw did not make sense.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Venomfang had assumed that Qin Mo was a brute, someone who relied on overwhelming firepower rather than tactical finesse.
"Who needs tactics," he had thought, "when you have teleportation and an army outfitted in power armor?"
He had expected another reckless assault, a relentless charge.
But that wasn't happening.
The First Legion forces had fortified their advance routes.
They were probing his flanks with harassing detachments, bleeding him dry without overcommitting.
This wasn't a flashy maneuver.
This wasn't deception.
This was the smart way to fight.
And it deeply unsettled him.
The aide hesitated. "Do we still advance?"
Venomfang's patience snapped.
"Do not distract me!"
Silence.
Venomfang's mind raced.
His forces were locked into formation, forced into defensive clustering due to teleportation tactics.
If the enemy's teleportation had been unstable, he could have used rituals to disrupt it.
But it wasn't.
"Of course we continue advancing. Have each regiment support one another. No panic, no disorder. If anyone breaks ranks, I'll burn their entire family alive."
"…Understood." The aide bowed and left.
Venomfang returned to his thoughts.
He prided himself on winning through cunning, but the enemy's teleportation advantage forced him to rely on simplistic tactics that he despised.
So now, he had no choice but to keep his forces tight, ensuring mutual reinforcement.
And he knew its greatest weakness.
Not artillery fire.
Not siege tactics.
But morale collapse.
One crack in the line, one regiment faltering under pressure, and his entire force would unravel.
And when that happened… the battle would be lost.
Venomfang's expression darkened.
"Send a message to the 20th Regiment commander."
The aide nodded. "Shall I offer reinforcements?"
Venomfang smirked.
"No. Give him a warning."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"If he dares to retreat under enemy fire, he better fight to the death, because if he doesn't… I'll skin him alive myself. And I'll use his spine as a banner pole."