129: Chapter 130 Old soldiers never die, they just publish books.

The Golden Legion's vice-captain thrust the broken half of his halberd into the ice beneath his feet.

He gasped for air; the respirator in his helmet had been cracked by the previous shockwave, allowing freezing air mixed with a pungent ozone scent to scrape directly into his lungs, cold as if he had swallowed a handful of crushed glass.

The captain was dead, with not even ashes remaining.

That last round of explosions had completely torn apart their core fire support network.

The vice-captain checked the radar; only about two hundred green dots representing allies remained, all swept into the lower section of this main rift by the shockwave.

This rift was the only passage leading to Facility Three.

The rift was narrow, flanked by hard ice formed over millions of years; the narrowest point in the middle only allowed three people to walk side-by-side.

The vice-captain drew the backup plasma pistol from his waist and patted a shivering soldier beside him.

As long as they held this narrow funnel-like opening, anything falling from above would be roasted by their overlapping lines of fire; their reaction speeds were still fifty percent faster than an ordinary person's, and their Energy Shields could link together to form a wall in this narrow terrain.

A few shards of ice fell from above the rift.

The vice-captain looked up, his finger tensed on the trigger.

Boom.

An incredibly muffled gunshot exploded above the icy valley.

There was no elegant hum of a plasma weapon, only the crude roar of pure gunpowder and metal colliding.

The shivering soldier next to the vice-captain suddenly lost his upper body.

An oversized-caliber bolt shell, accelerated a second time by electromagnetic coils, easily tore through the B-rank Energy Shield and slammed into the soldier's chest.

The depleted uranium armor-piercing core inside the bolt shell detonated a second time after penetrating the composite armor, blowing the flesh within into a cloud of red mist that instantly dispersed.

Shards of bone and flesh splattered all over the vice-captain, coating his visor.

Before he even had time to raise a hand to wipe it away, a second roar echoed from above.

Then came a third, and a fourth.

Fourteen Electromagnetic Bolters formed a line of death above the rift.

Those bullets didn't need to aim at all.

Because they weren't targeting people; they were targeting the ice walls on both sides of the rift.

Heavy bolt shells bored into the ancient ice that hadn't melted for millions of years and exploded.

Massive ice blocks weighing dozens of tons broke off from the cliffs, mixed with icicles and rocks, and filled the narrow funnel with devastating gravitational potential energy.

The vice-captain and the remaining two hundred-plus soldiers didn't die by the gun; they were crushed into the icy abyss at the bottom of the rift, without even a single scream escaping.

C-19 stood at the edge of the cliff, his muzzle pointing downward, trailing a wisp of blue smoke.

Behind him, thirteen recruits maintained a half-kneeling tactical stance, their stocks pressed firmly into their shoulder notches.

The barrels emitted incredible heat from continuous firing, melting the surrounding snow and ice; fourteen giant steel towers over two meters tall stood amidst the white steam.

"Down," C-19 uttered a single word.

The fourteen of them leaped off the cliff simultaneously.

They landed on the pile of crushed ice that had buried the enemy alive, their half-ton power armor making the ice layer creak and crack.

Ahead was an extension of the rift where the terrain became extremely complex, filled with blind spots obscured by icicles, rendering scanning radar completely useless.

C-19 slung his Bolter onto his back and drew his Chainsword.

The thirteen recruits repeated the same action.

The first blind corner.

Recruit No. 3, leading the way, didn't peek or throw a reconnaissance probe.

He swung his Chainsword directly into the ice wall at the corner; the high-frequency rotating teeth instantly carved a half-meter-deep gash into the ice until the tip of the blade struck metal hidden behind it.

It was the armor of a Golden Legion survivor hiding in the blind spot, preparing an ambush.

Recruit No. 3 twisted his wrist.

The Chainsword changed angle within the ice, grinding upward along the metal; a muffled scream was stifled behind the thick ice wall as hot blood flowed from the cut, staining the white ice a piercing red.

Chapter Four, Guidelines for Clearing Corners in Confined Spaces, Article Seven.

Corvin had written it clearly in the tactical manual: In blind spots where radar fails, do not use your eyes to confirm the corner; use your Chainsword.

The recruits followed this without the slightest hesitation.

Like a precision bulldozer, they used physical means to cut through every icicle, hollow, and snowdrift where someone could potentially hide.

When they encountered rock that couldn't be cut, they simply stuffed grenades into the crevices.

The sounds of explosions and the roar of Chainswords echoed continuously through the rift.

There was no communication, no shouting of tactical commands.

Every movement was etched into their neural circuits; every potentially fatal mistake had been smoothed over by the experience bought with the lives of veterans.

Fifteen minutes.

The fourteen Astartes leveled the entire rift, treading over crushed ice and chunks of flesh until they reached the gate of Facility Three.

Inside the Holographic Operations Cabin.

Li Cang brought his face close to the screen.

There were no red dots on the screen because the electromagnetic interference here had reached an extreme, blinding all external detection methods.

He could only see the scene ahead through C-19's helmet camera.

That was no ordinary door.

It was a black metal wall over fifty meters high and wide, covered in thick energy conduits, all lines connecting to the massive object behind the gate.

On either side of the gate, two golden six-legged walking vehicles were wedged firmly into firing positions, the focusing rings of their four thermal main cannons glowing intensely.

Behind the vehicles was a line of defenders in heavy radiation-proof armor, holding not Plasma Halberds, but heavy Melta guns connected to energy backpacks behind them.

This was the final line of defense for the Macro-cannon array.

The progress bar above the gate showed that the Macro-cannon had ten minutes left to charge.

The fourteen Astartes stood five hundred meters from the gate.

There were no icicles for cover, no bunkers to hide in; it was an absolutely flat, open underground area.

"Estimated casualty rate for a frontal assault is eighty percent," C-19's voice came through the encrypted channel. "Requesting tactical guidance."

Li Cang looked at the two vehicles nearly blocking the passage and tapped his finger on the armrest.

He pulled up the final page of Corvin's tactical manual.

It was a hand-drawn diagram showing how an Astartes should dismantle a large shield generator.

"C-19," Li Cang said into the microphone, "remember how you crushed that squad leader's armor back at Manila Fortress?"

"I remember."

"Now, take them and crush the joints of those two vehicles." Li Cang's gaze was as cold as ice. "Overload, maximum output."