Warhammer: Striving to Be a Grinding Man

Chapter 61 Destroyed Spaceship

The timer skipped several more days.

The greenskins charged in like a tidal wave, wave after wave, pouring out from the shadows deep within the space, crashing into the firing positions at the tunnel entrance, shattering into limbs and fragments, then retreating, only to return again and again. The roars of tens of thousands of greenskins echoed repeatedly in the enormous cavity. The rapid-fire of the greenskin boys' pistols was as dense as a torrential downpour on a tin roof. The techmasters, hiding in the rear, manipulated crudely made weapon platforms from the workshop area to unleash a barrage of fire at the tunnel entrance, but their marksmanship was as unreliable as their gun-making skills; most of their ammunition struck the adamantite-reinforced bulkheads, leaving cratered bullet holes.

Liu En's area of ​​effect covered the entire gentle slope. The greenskins' charge was utterly tactical—the front-line greenskins yelled "WAAAGH! Shrimp! Die!" as they charged forward, only to be torn apart by heavy bombs; the rear-line soldiers continued charging, stepping over the corpses of their comrades, only to be torn apart again. Occasionally, a few clever greenskins would try to sneak up from behind the corpses, only to be riddled with holes by the precise fire of the Casterland mechs. They only knew there were enemies at the entrance to the passage; they charged in, killed, or were killed.

But deep within the space, beyond WAAAGH's roar, there was a different sound. Not a scream, but a deep, muffled growl that suppressed all the noise. Each one was lower in frequency and longer in duration than the green-skinned boy's roar. It was making them surge.

Who is in command?

Liu En's consciousness swept into the depths of space, catching a silhouette on a flat patch of ground at the edge of the workshop area—not the mechanical implant of the Tech Master, but a larger, thicker, and purer flesh. It stood there, its entire body covered in thick metal armor plates, but its limbs were not replaced by mechanical prosthetics. It was simply larger; the ordinary green-skinned boy standing in front of it was shorter and narrower.

It's the leader. The military command unit within the Greenskin mob class, a veteran under the war chief of each Greenskin tribe. Bigger, stronger, and greener than the average Greenskin. The Techies are responsible for manufacturing weapons, repairing junk, and tinkering in the workshop, but they aren't the overall commander of this Greenskin army. During battles, while the Techies are welding in the workshop, the leader stands in front, roaring and pointing towards the entrance: "Hey! Go! Kill!"

Those brainless green-skinned lads charged. It didn't charge; it stood behind and watched. It commanded all the charges over the past few days. Without it, the green-skinned attacks were like scattered headless flies; with it, they were at least a well-organized group of headless flies. The organizational sequence of each charge was always orchestrated by the leader, who shouted and coordinated everything.

Several days of fighting had depleted the garrison regiment's ammunition. The six-legged transport vehicles moved steadily, carrying ammunition boxes back and forth between the firing positions and the rear supply points, their metal feet treading over the metal scraps and pipe debris piled up on the passageway floor. No matter how ample the initial ammunition allocation was, it couldn't withstand such attrition.

"We're running low on ammunition," Kara said in the garrison channel.

Liu En was inside the curved breastwork, his consciousness covering the entire gentle slope area. Ammunition couldn't be conjured out of thin air, but a supply depot could. He wasn't looking for a warehouse in a wrecked ship—he was going to build one.

Liu En stood up from the inside of the arched breastwork and turned to walk into the depths of the passage. He passed through the firing positions, through the ammunition crates piled up in the servitor's work area, through the servitor's waiting area, and reached the end of a branch path in the passage that had been cleared out and was no longer in use by servitors. The field unfolded, and his consciousness reached it. Atoms were drawn from the higher-dimensional warehouse and condensed in the void.

The cabin floor stretched out from beneath your feet. It wasn't a smooth, new floor, but old metal plates, worn, cracked, and rusted at the edges. The walls rose from the floor, their surfaces covered in dark purple mottled deposits of subspace corrosion. The lights were embedded in the ceiling, their brightness deliberately dimmed, half on and half off. Dust accumulated at the joints of the ventilation ducts, and debris piled up in the corners. The racks rose from the ground, not brand new, but old racks with rough welds, their surfaces covered in oil and years of welding slag. Sealed crates were stacked on the racks, their edges dented, labels worn, serial numbers blurred, and some seals cracked.

This is the equipment of the elite Astronautical forces during the M35 era. He retrieved the blueprints from the database—material composition information obtained from previously dismantled supplies—and laid out the atomic-level structure of each piece of equipment layer by layer. Atoms were retrieved from the warehouse and arranged according to the blueprints. Hellfire Guns, Multi-Barrel Laser Cannons, Ammunition Boxes, Charging Packs, First Aid Kits, Compressed Rations—not just a few boxes, but enough for two companies to fight a war of attrition. All the boxes had been aged; rust, scratches, dust, and wear on the labels were all generated at the atomic level, ensuring that no two boxes were exactly alike. The numbers on the labels were randomly generated sequences, scattered across batches, making it appear as if they had been sealed and piled up for thousands of years.

The entrance to the compartment was mostly blocked by overturned shelves and scattered sealed boxes, making it look like it hadn't been cleaned up after the collapse. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust and debris.

Everything here is new, but it all looks old. To anyone who comes here, it looks like an old warehouse that has been sealed in a wrecked ship for thousands of years.

Liu En reported the coordinates in the garrison's channel. "Deep in the fork in the passage on the right, a cabin has been cleared. There are still supplies inside, come and get a few people to move them."

He didn't say "discovered," he said "cleared out." The transport-type servitors traversed the aisles, moving aside shelves and sealed containers blocking the entrance, entering the compartment, and carrying or lifting supplies from the shelves—the multi-legged configuration allowed for agile movement in narrow spaces, specifically designed for short-distance distribution. Ammunition boxes, charging packs, and reserve rations—a considerable quantity.

Kara asked in the channel, "Where did this come from?" Liu En replied, "It was blocked before, but it was just cleared." Kara didn't ask any more questions.

The garrison regiment's ammunition was replenished. Transport operatives carried ammunition boxes from the newly cleared warehouse and stacked them neatly in an ammunition storage area behind the firing positions. Even when the recruits' explosive rifles malfunctioned during continuous fire, there was no need to wait for operatives to repair them. Liu En's domain covered the entire position; his consciousness touched the atomic arrangement of worn parts. Without touching them, the worn rifling in the barrels was reshaped at the atomic level, the loose springs in the bolts regained their elasticity, and the misaligned sights in the optical sights automatically returned to zero.

Dr. Liz set up a makeshift medical post behind the lines. When the first wounded soldier was carried off, she acted swiftly—cutting open the sealant around the damaged power armor, cleaning debris, applying hemostatic agent, suturing, and bandaging. As the wounded were moved away, she washed the blood off her gloves and moved on to the next. The list of wounded soldiers grew rapidly, but no one died. Some injuries were so severe that even she felt they were in serious danger—shrapnel had cut into the shoulder seam of the power armor, severing the carotid artery; explosive fragments were lodged in the chest cavity, millimeters from the heart.

Liu En walked past her, his consciousness touching the bleeding points in the wounded soldier's body, stopping the bleeding, repositioning bone fragments, and rebuilding blood vessels. Liz was unaware of any of this; she only saw the wounded soldier's vital signs rapidly stabilize within the few dozen seconds the captain had passed. The first time this happened, she looked up during a break in the suturing and found Liu En already standing beside the wounded soldier. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out. Liz read the lip movements of those two words—"It's alright."

Kara patrolled back and forth in a depression in the middle of the firing position. A thick layer of spent heavy-explosive shell casings covered the ground beneath her feet. She issued rotation orders over the garrison channel: Company A was to withdraw for rest, and Company B would take over the position. The veterans, resting, retreated to the rest area at the back of the passage, removed their helmets, and leaned against the bulkheads, closing their eyes to rest. Transport servitude vehicles carrying hot food boxes came from the rear supply point; the staple food was unlimited. The new recruits gathered together during the rotation breaks; some whispered about how many green-skinned soldiers they had killed in the recent charge, while others' fingers were still trembling, but the corners of their mouths had already begun to turn upwards.

Carlos dragged his injured leg down from the battlefield. His old wound in his left leg had flared up again during days of fierce fighting; the power armor's servo system emitted intermittent hums, but he didn't report it, simply leaning against the bulkhead with his eyes closed. Liz went over, knelt down to examine it, and sprayed bone growth factor to repair the cracks. Carlos opened his eyes, glanced at her, said nothing, and closed them again.

The second day, the third day, and the fourth day.

The green-skinned charge, which initially surged forward like a tidal wave, became intermittent probing. The roars from the depths of space still lingered, but the charge had ceased. The ancient junk still stood in the workshop area deep within space, the low-frequency rumble of the reactor continuously emanating from it. The tech-savvy kids climbed up and down around the crudely constructed Titan, welding and adjusting it.

It just won't start.

Every day, the leader still stands on the flat ground at the edge of the workshop area, roaring, "Shrimp! Charge!" But it can't roar anymore—no greens are responding. It's not that they're afraid; it's that there aren't enough of the greens. The corpses of the green boys have piled up in a thick layer on the gentle slope, and the transport-type servants clear them away during lulls in the fighting, pushing them to the sides of the slope to form low walls.

Day .

The green-skinned assault team almost stopped.

The leader was still standing there, roaring at the edge of the workshop area, but the responses to its roars were sparse. It kicked the little devil at its feet, then kicked a tech tyrant who had just run past it, and then waved the machete in its hand, which was almost as tall as itself, toward the entrance of the passage.

"Go! Shrimp!" it roared. No green thing moved.

The tech gurus ignored it. They all huddled around the ancient junk, climbing up and down the scaffolding. They weren't repairing it; they were arguing. Two tech gurus squatted on top of the cockpit, pointing at a pipe connection and yelling at each other, their fangs almost poking each other's faces. A third tech gurus leaned halfway out of the hatch, holding a welding torch, shouted something at the other two, and then all three of them roared together.

The reactor of the quack was spinning, the hydraulic lines for the joints were mostly in place, and the weapon platform had been welded on. It could move. But it wouldn't move. One person said to weld it the way the quack did, another said to knock its head out like Skullgo's, and yet another thought the boss should sit outside, sticking half his body out of the skylight on the cockpit and yelling.

The leader's command chain broke. Tech Tyrant lost the protection of his armed formation, and Gu Juji lost the cover of his infantry defensive line.

Liu En stood inside the arched breast wall, his consciousness probing into the depths of space. The ancient junk's reactor was still running, the weapon platform was installed, and the power system was circulating at every joint. However, the retractable sunroof above the operator's seat was not properly welded—a thin crack ran from the pipeline interlayer behind the center console all the way to the seam of the armor plate above the seat, the edge of which was temporarily held in place by Techba with rivets.