"Hold your weapons steady, load your ammunition, put on your helmets." The officer took a deep breath. He wanted to smoke, or have a drink,
but current conditions didn't allow either. Raising his hand, he brushed the dust from his cap. The air he had just inhaled was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder and decaying corpses,
making him cough uncontrollably. The dust he hadn't had time to brush off fell, sticking to his face and clothes, making him look dirty.
But he no longer cared. This was not like before; he was no longer that arrogant ceremonial guard. He checked his weapon, stuffed his flipped-out pockets back in,
adjusted his sleeves, then rubbed his right hand on his trouser leg, carefully pulling out the pendant from his bosom.
The photo on it showed a dignified lady and two mischievous children. The corners of his mouth curved as he repeatedly wiped the photo in his palm, then gently kissed it, carefully returning it to his bosom like a servant placing a crown.
Then, he closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply, gathering his courage with each rise and fall of his chest. After an unknown period, he opened his eyes, turned around, and looked behind him.
Groups of soldiers were behind him, in the same temporary trench, doing almost the same things he was doing. Some of them were his old subordinates, these warriors appearing resolute and silent.
Others could hardly be called warriors; their faces had deep furrows, or the fresh stubble that hadn't been shaved off. In the past, they wouldn't have been here. He sighed.
The officer walked to the front of the line and adjusted his appearance one last time. Although still covered in ashes, his demeanor was as if he were about to receive an imperial commendation.
He stood ramrod straight, looking at the army before him: warriors, youths, old men, and even incomplete individuals. They made up this army. It could hardly be called a true army, but it was indeed an army, fighting for their homeland. He spoke, his voice the most sincere he had ever uttered.
"Gentlemen." "It is the greatest honor of my life to fight alongside you."
That was all. He turned around. A moment later, he heard the piercing order to attack. Countless battle cries and roars echoed through the air, the strong winds, and the communication network in his ear. He roared, shouted, remained silent, raised his weapon, and was the first to charge out.
——————
The air was filled with blood and dust. The officer did not run, nor did he shout. He displayed the qualities of a veteran, gripping his weapon tightly, searching for cover among the countless wreckage and ruins,
advancing step by step. He poked his head out and saw the battlefield before him. He recognized it as the city's most popular plaza,
usually bustling with snack stalls and roadside shops. His children especially wanted the dolls sold here. Every time after school, they would cling to him here for a long, long time.
But now, it was nothing but ruins. Gray dust and black rebar were the only colors. The once magnificent statues and flowerbeds were now dilapidated, scattered among the piles of dirt and craters everywhere.
And at their end was his objective: a fortress, now controlled by the invaders. He was not far from there, perhaps only a kilometer. An uncrossable kilometer.
He saw corpses, the curled up, completely charred bodies of Duranese. They numbered in the thousands, scattered among burning armored vehicles, proclaiming the "achievements" of the Duran army over the past hour.
And the number of these achievements was increasing every moment, because these hastily conscripted soldiers were utterly unsuited for the battlefield: they stumbled bewilderedly through the ruins,
or charged forward with a roaring hot-bloodedness, or simply froze in terror, unsure what to do—but the result was always the same. Screaming explosive shells found their marks without fail,
and almost every second, someone died. Only those who learned to immediately hit the ground, find cover, and mimic the veterans, truly earned a ticket to survive the battlefield.
But their sacrifices were not meaningless. While the invaders were busy clearing away these cannon fodders who might be carrying explosives, Duran's true killing moves: tanks,
air fleets, and land-based armored vehicles began to appear in droves. On the distant horizon, the last Duran artillery gritted its teeth, providing covering fire. But often, just after firing the first shot,
they would be struck down from the sky: Duran's sky no longer belonged to the Duranese. But even so, the support did not cease. The Duranese were bleeding, but beyond bleeding, there was nothing else they could do.
The officer waited. It didn't take long before he heard the second sharp whistle: the signal for a full-scale assault. Like the nascent sun slicing through the morning mist, in an instant, the entire battlefield roared.
Everyone roared, all the war beasts roared, all of Duran's land and air roared. Tens of thousands of Duranese warriors rushed out from their hiding places,
instantly forming an unstoppable wave of attack. Countless roaring war engines were mixed in their ranks, like steep boulders in a cataclysmic ocean.
They roared, raged, surged. They charged towards the land occupied by the invaders. They charged towards the dense trenches, barbed wire, and minefields. They charged towards their deaths, perhaps meaningless deaths. But they had no other choice.
In the face of such a torrent, the fortress seemed to pause for a second. Then, a storm of artillery fire, like heavy rain, swept forth,
meticulously ravaging every inch of ground where Duranese stood. Dozens of muzzles opened fire simultaneously, reaping those who survived the initial bombardment.
The officer ran, roared, and in the first moment after charging, his throat went completely hoarse. His face churned through round after round of dust. Explosions and screams continuously echoed around him.
The remnants of his vision caught everything beside him: the war engines that the Duranese had once been so proud of had all become burning torches.
The armies that had once shaken the earth had turned into pools of melted blood in a matter of seconds. He saw the dead, those killed by bullets, those shattered by landmines, those twisted on barbed wire. He knew them, he didn't know them. Corpses, corpses, corpses everywhere.
He ran, and yet seemed to stop. His mind was a chaotic mess, preventing him from distinguishing the current situation from reality.
Blood and death pierced his rationality, plunging him into a different kind of madness: What happened? Where were their armies? Where were his comrades? How did it all end?
He opened his mouth, his teeth full of sand. Then, he suddenly felt something and abruptly looked up, spotting his target fortress: he was standing at its base.
And above it, there were several vague black figures. They looked so tall. Were those the invaders? He thought, and then a sharp pain suddenly shot through his forehead.
The gunshot seemed to come as an afterthought. When he heard the shot, he had already fallen to the ground. Blood and brain matter flowed into streams on the ground, soaking the completely shattered amulet, soaking the carefree smiles in the photograph.
——————
"A minute ago, the enemy launched another small-scale attack on the landing zone controlled by Moriun. The numbers were between thirty and fifty thousand, and they used armored units and artillery." Jonson nodded. This message was quickly passed over.
They stood atop a massive fortress, virtually the highest point on the outer perimeter of the Duran Imperial Palace. From its towers, they could directly observe the core area of the Scarlet Fortress, dozens of kilometers away: the Tyrant of Duran was hiding inside.
Capturing this place meant that the portion of the plan assigned to Jonson had been completed. This was not easy: if not for the shield that had always enveloped this fortress suddenly disappearing during the attack,
allowing the Imperial Army's air superiority to be maximized, the Dark Angels might have left hundreds of corpses here. Clearly, this was due to the Second Knightly Order, responsible for seizing the shield generator area, having achieved success.
[Gael did well.] Thinking of this, even Lion El'Jonson couldn't help but nod, praising sincerely.
[As for Moriun, has he not yet broken the stalemate?] Facing his lord's question, Alajos merely reopened the tactical holographic projection. The Scarlet Fortress and its surrounding land were clearly displayed:
Jonson and his main force were to the west of the fortress, while Gael and his Second Knightly Order were to the north. Under Moriun's personal command, the control zones of the two forces had already connected.
And across the Scarlet Fortress itself, to the east of the fortress, Moriun and his Knightly Order were compressed into an extremely small area.
They only held a few fortresses, and the number of Duran legions surrounding them had reached a point that even the Primarch himself found somewhat chilling.
[What does Moriun say?] "He states that he can fully hold the position, but it will come at a cost. He hopes for an emergency deployment of reinforcements to his area.
The first wave of airborne troops has already suffered over fifty percent casualties, and the Duranese army still has at least ten to thirty million soldiers."
[Let Kos handle it.] Then, Jonson was silent, looking at the projection, at the Space Wolves' attack routes in the core area of the Scarlet Fortress, which were either thwarted or twisted.
[At this rate, by the time they cut off that Tyrant's head, I will have lost the entire Sixth Knightly Order.] The Primarch whispered. Then, the abominable image of a werewolf appeared on his communicator.
——————
Morgana walked to Jonson's front. Lion El'Jonson glanced at her a few more times, seemingly curious about her anger: the silver-haired lady almost never displayed such intense emotional fluctuations.
[What happened?] [It's resolved.] Jonson nodded, asking no further questions. His gaze returned to the tactical holographic projection.
Orders were issued through his words, mobilizing the entire First Legion. Morgana stood beside him, silently witnessing all this. The angry aura rapidly vanished at a visible speed, as if it had never existed.
She looked at the clumsy battle situation on the holographic projection, as if watching a professional boxer sparring with an old lady. She endured for five minutes.
[Lord Jonson, if you wish to turn the tide of battle, the best way is for me to directly set up a teleportation array and teleport into the Duran Tyrant's room: as soon as his head falls to the ground, this war will end in an instant.] The Lion did not speak. Instead, Alajos, standing nearby, spoke for him.
"That is true, Lady Morgana, but that is the Wolf King's prey, and the agreed time has not yet arrived."
[Indeed. And there are forty minutes left. Which means Moriun and his Knightly Order will have to hold on there, senselessly wasting forty minutes.]
[When we plunge our hands into the mire, if we cannot immediately pull out what we want, we will be swallowed by endless mud.] Alajos did not reply. Instead, the Lion looked at the mortal aide who managed communications.
[Can you contact Leman Russ?] "Apologies, my lord, that fortress is still under an information suppression status..." The Lion then remained silent.
He just quietly watched the Space Wolves disappear, just a step away from their target. He watched his legions expend lives on a futile resistance front.
He watched more and more scarlet markers appear on the projection, each symbolizing an approaching Duranese legion. Before Morgana arrived, he watched.
After Morgana arrived, he still watched. But after a long silence, he swayed slightly and uttered the thought from his heart.
[This will infuriate my brother.] Alajos blinked, pondering his gene-father's words. He instinctively looked at the silver-haired female officer, then heard a soft chuckle.
[Nothing is ever perfect.] [Wasting a good opportunity by waiting is a great extravagance, Lord Jonson.] The Lion did not turn back.
He looked at the tactical projection again. The lives of his vows and his sons constantly shifted weight in his heart. He thought of the fleeting werewolves.
[The Space Wolves are still not moving...] [How is Moriun doing?] "The AS and AX fortresses have just fallen. The enemy has begun a large-scale suicidal attack." This reply made Jonson pause. He turned his body, and looked at his blood kin. Then, he was met with a pair of calm, unruffled eyes.
[This is no longer war, my lord.] [This is a farce.] Jonson's brow twitched.
[Are you advising me?] [It is a suggestion.] He turned back, glanced at the battle again, then at the unwavering front line. He seemed to sigh.
[I gave them time.] His voice held reluctant annoyance, and a faint hint of expectation.
[Now, prepare the teleportation array.] [Let us end this boring charade.]
📢 MASSIVE UPDATE FOR BINGE-READERS! 📢
Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my work! ❤️
A lot of you have asked for an easier way to unlock all 400+ Advance Chapters at once without dealing with a monthly commitment.
I listened to your feedback! I have completely restructured the full-story bundles on my P a t r e o n to make them much more accessible for everyone.
If you want to unlock Lifetime Access to massive 100, 200, or 500+ chapter bundles and binge the story at your own pace, it has never been easier!
👉 Search for [ flokixy ] on P a t r e o n and look for the new Full-Story Bundles!
(As always, my standard tiers for daily chapter updates are still active too! Thank you for supporting the story!)