Seraphs of the Emperor’s Judgment

Chapter 154: Gekis's Victory

In his experience, whenever the main gun fired, the area surrounding the tank would be saturated with crackling electrical feedback.

The static charge would lift energetically charged dust particles from the armor plating, causing the hair on the back of every crew member's neck to stand up.

Lucian Silos could have joined the battle much more safely by trailing behind the infantry, but the terrifying destructive power of the Malcador heavy tank was simply too overwhelming—he found it irresistible.

On the grainy pict-screen before him, a structural bulkhead had just been obliterated by the super-heavy tank's main cannon.

The firepower of such a tank was sufficient to obliterate a dozen xenos, or even their barbaric war machines. A makeshift fortification stood absolutely no chance of withstanding it.

Amidst the gun-smoke, he saw bodies tumbling out from the ruins—the green corpses of the xenos.

Some of the creatures had even caught fire, suffusing the air with the spicy scent of their spores.

Half an hour ago, they had ridden troop transports directly into the ship via the breached flight deck. Meanwhile, the surrounding enemy vessels, suddenly deprived of their supreme command, fell into momentary disarray. Battered relentlessly by the Imperial detached fleet, they had essentially lost their capacity to resist and were desperately attempting to disengage from the battlefield.

As for their flagship, it was simply abandoned on the battlefield like a dead fish.

The Chapter Master's orders were straightforward: secure the primary sectors, then ruthlessly exterminate the xenos within.It was not an exceedingly difficult mission, but considering the potential resistance they might face, Soshyan nonetheless agreed to let Lucian deploy his Armoured Assault Battalion for this operation.

Their objective was to purge the resistance on the flight deck.

Leaning halfway out of the tank's cupola, Lucian could not hear the shrieks of the xenos, though he wished he could.

His capacity to revel in the suffering of his enemies had become somewhat barbaric.

At that moment, a green light illuminated beside him—the main gun was reloaded.

"Assault formation, advance."

Picking up the comm-set, he began directing the surrounding armor to push deeper into the flight deck.

Flames encircled the tank, making Lucian feel somewhat overheated, so he forcefully yanked his collar open—not just because of the external heat, but also because his blood was already boiling with battle-lust.

"Kill! Slaughter all the xenos! Crush them!"

The tank hammered a path through the greenskins' hastily erected fortifications. Herds of greenskin Boyz fled with their hands over their heads, scrambling out of the Malcador heavy tank's path, for their weapons were utterly incapable of denting its thick armor. Since resistance was futile, their only option was flight.

As they fled, rank after rank of heavy bolter rounds mowed them down, while streams of las-fire and solid shells sawed through their chaotic lines.

Searing blood erupted from the exploding corpses of the xenos, akin to geothermal geysers.

"Kill 'em! Slaughter 'em mercilessly!"

Merely watching was not satisfying enough. Lucian cast aside his greatcoat, swiveled the pintle-mounted twin-linked bolter, and pulled back the charging handle.

The ammunition fed with a satisfying click, and he squeezed the trigger.

Bang bang bang—!

The recoil of the twin-linked bolter was incredibly fierce. It was only suitable for use by mortals like them when securely mounted, allowing them to maintain a stable trajectory against the enemy.

Amidst Lucian's manic laughter and roars, the fleeing greenskins exploded one after another, reduced to flesh and shattered bone.

Hearing this laughter, Kent, situated inside the tank, couldn't help but shiver. He hadn't expected his commanding officer, who usually appeared to be a gentleman, to possess such an unhinged side.

He even suspected that if he were standing next to him, the blood-crazed commander might gun him down as well.

Right now, it seemed somewhat possible.

Through his periscope, Kent saw that there were still a few greenskins holding their ground.

The weapons they used were not poor in quality or efficacy, but their organization had been utterly shattered; isolated acts of bravery could not turn the tide of battle.

Kent obliterated them with a single volley from his cannon.

Atop the turret, having emptied an entire magazine, Lucian admired his tank battalion as it rumbled past the final hellish stretch of fortifications at the end of the flight deck.

On his flanks, two Malcador heavy tanks charged forward in tandem over a hastily constructed berm, crashing down with thunderous force.

The enemies stubbornly holding those positions were either crushed beneath the tank treads or buried in the dirt.

The infantry squads trailing closely behind the tanks unleashed dense volleys of las-fire, while shoulder-mounted missiles bearing searing contrails swarmed over the enemies' heads in a dizzying display.

Breacher squads strafed the exposed enemy formations with assault cannons, shattering their cover, while assault squads followed in their wake, ending the sporadic resistance with bayonets and rifles.

The dataslate by Lucian's side was overlaid with a wealth of tactical information. Silver icons clamped down on the enemy fortifications just as tightly as a clenched fist; they had conquered this sector with ease.

The true fortifications lay a kilometer ahead—those labyrinthine ship corridors were the genuine bastions of greenskin resistance.

Engaging in close-quarters brutal melee within confined spaces was where mortals like them lacked a significant advantage, or rather, where their disadvantages became far more pronounced.

But they weren't needed in those areas.

For they had far more powerful masters: the Space Marines of the Imperium, and the Legio Cybernetica under their command.

Like sweeping trash from a house, they would root out the greenskins from every corner of the warship and exterminate them.

Lucian felt a profound sense of pride in this.

In the freezing void, the slaughter began to slow.

The greenskin fleet was no more; the battlefield was littered only with dying and utterly dead warships.

The detached Imperial fleet had ceased firing upon their victims, as if the preceding high-intensity engagement had completely depleted their ammunition reserves.

The encircled greenskin remnants continued to fire in all directions, but the detached fleet paid no heed to these superficial scratches. Like a bull effortlessly trampling a dog into the mud, they crushed the xenos' feeble resistance.

Clinging to some of the vessels—ships once belonging to humanity but subsequently captured and modified by the greenskins—were numerous boarding torpedoes, looking like fleas on a bull. The Astra Militarum guardsmen, having just narrowly escaped death, immediately threw themselves back into intense boarding actions.

The boarding parties typically rushed directly for the plasma reactor compartments, aiming to sabotage the engines and suffocate the warships.

Then, they would depart.

Once the life support and artificial gravity systems failed, the freezing void would embrace the hulls, and ultimately, all would return to silence.

After the battle, the Adeptus Mechanicus salvage fleets would arrive to inspect every vessel and ascertain if any were fit for recovery—after all, every capital ship was an invaluable asset to the Imperial Navy, especially in an era of ever-increasing conflict.

The resistance gradually weakened, and the numbers dwindled. The cornered greenskins unleashed the sheer stubbornness bred into their very blood, fighting to the bitter end. They opposed humanity with an inextinguishable fury; even when their ships were utterly crippled, they continued to unleash unyielding barrages.

"Sir, the enemy has been completely routed. It is another monumental victory."

On the bridge of the flagship Holy Spirit's Prayer, Vice Admiral Yarrow watched the replays and tactical projections of the massacre on his screens. His gaze held neither joy nor satisfaction, and the surroundings had fallen quiet.

The adjutant, having finished his battle report, had already departed. No one else would disturb him.

He merely savored the victory by himself.

The primary greenskin fleet had been annihilated. A few had managed to flee and jump into the Warp, but the vast majority of their warships were currently shattered, burning, and drifting in the void.

Combat data scrolled across the tactical displays, detailing this sudden and absolute victory, while simultaneously analyzing the casualties incurred during the engagement.

It was an almost perfect victory.

Almost—

A certain message scrolled across the panel once more.

It was from the Astral Knights.

"Dammit!"

Emitting a low growl, Vice Admiral Yarrow smashed the screen into glowing fragments with a single punch, then stood up and walked out of the silent bridge.