72: Some deliveries require you to ring the doorbell.

["sword of truth" - Assault Hangar 4]

Red warning lights flashed inside the hangar.

N-05 sat in the cockpit of the "Night Owl" Thunderhawk Gunship.

His hands rested on the control stick, the cold metallic sensation transmitted through the neural interface of his power armor gloves into his cerebral cortex.

He could sense the vibration frequency of the engines, the accelerated flow of liquid hydrogen in the Fuel lines, and the awakening of this steel behemoth.

This was his first time piloting a Thunderhawk for a live combat mission.

Three days ago, he had been on the leviathan, using a Chainsword to slice open a flamer's Fuel tank.

Now, he sat within an aerial fortress capable of tearing apart an entire armored column.

"Night Owl, catapult clearance granted."

The voice coming through the communicator was not human speech, but a string of piercing binary electronic tones.

The Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus were responsible for coordinating the catapult procedures; they disdained the use of "inefficient" organic vocal systems.

N-05 did not respond. He simply began checking the instrument panels one by one.

Engine preheating.

Green light.

Turbolaser charging.

Green light.

Hellfire missile mounting status.

Green light! Green light! Green light!

All twelve in position!!!

Ventral bomb bay.

Six Melta breaching charges.

Four High-explosive armor-piercing shells.

Green light!!!

"System check complete," N-05's voice rang out on the channel, devoid of any inflection.

"Prepare for catapult."

Sitting in the co-pilot seat behind him was another First Legion warrior, codenamed V-07.

This warrior had joined the army two months earlier than N-05, but was equally young.

His fingers hovered above the weapon control panel, awaiting the order to fire.

"Catapult rails clear," the mechanical voice came from the external speakers.

"Countdown starting."

Before N-05, the massive hangar doors began to separate.

The air in the airlock was pumped away.

Vacuum rushed in.

He saw the scene outside.

Deep blackness.

Cold starlight.

An azure arc stretched across the bottom of his vision—that was Terra.

The place where he was born.

The place where he was augmented.

And—the place where he was about to go and kill.

Clouds covered more than half of the planet's surface.

White and gray intertwined, forming massive spiral structures under the influence of atmospheric circulation.

"Three."

N-05's spine tensed subconsciously.

"Two."

His hands tightened on the control stick by a centimeter.

"One."

"Launch."

Boom!

In 0.3 seconds, the electromagnetic catapult accelerated the "Night Owl" from a standstill to four times the speed of sound.

N-05's body was slammed into the seat by the terrifying acceleration.

His internal organs bore a pressure equivalent to fifteen times his own weight.

Protected by the hydraulic buffer system inside his power armor, his spine let out a slight creak.

If a normal human were sitting here, his skeleton would have shattered into dust at this moment.

But N-05 was an Astartes.

His twin hearts beat in synchronized acceleration, pumping oxygen-rich blood into every muscle fiber.

His third lung began to work, providing an extra supply of oxygen to his brain.

His retinas adjusted instantly, filtering out the interference of starlight and locking onto the course ahead.

The "Night Owl" broke free from its mother ship's embrace and charged toward the blue planet.

N-05 turned his head to look at the rear-view screen.

Two other Thunderhawks followed closely behind.

Their black livery was almost invisible under the starlight, with only the blue flames of the engine nozzles betraying their positions.

A three-craft formation.

A V-shaped formation.

Standard atmospheric assault configuration.

"Formation confirmed," N-05 reported on the channel.

"Beginning atmospheric entry."

...[High Altitude Terra - Pacific Theater]

The process of crossing the ionosphere lasted forty-seven seconds.

The alarm in the cockpit sounded thirty-two times.

The hull rubbed violently against atmospheric molecules, and the temperature soared to 1,200 degrees Celsius within ten seconds.

The world outside the viewport turned into a sea of dark red fire.

The Thunderhawk's thermal coating began to evaporate, forming a protective plasma film around the fuselage.

Data streams flickered constantly on N-05's tactical visor.

[Hull Temperature: 1247°C]

[Thermal Layer Integrity: 87%]

[Structural Stress: Normal Range]

He did not speak. His hands held the control stick steadily, making fine adjustments based on airflow changes.

Each adjustment was no more than 0.3 degrees, but it was enough to keep the "Night Owl" at the optimal reentry angle.

The turbulence lasted for a full forty-seven seconds.

Then, it suddenly stopped.

"Entering stratosphere," V-07's voice rang out on the channel.

N-05 pulled the control stick. The Thunderhawk's massive fuselage vibrated as it leveled out from its near-vertical dive.

He looked down.

The sea surface was black.

It wasn't the normal color of the ocean.

It was a sickly, polluted black.

Black rain poured down from low-hanging clouds, and black waves surged in the gale.

The entire Pacific Theater was shrouded in this ominous darkness.

And in the center of that blackness floated a steel island.

["Abyssal Overlord" - Mariana-class Mobile Fortress]

N-05's tactical visor automatically pulled up the archives for this fortress.

Total Length: 4.7 kilometers.

Displacement: Estimated over eight million tons.

Armament: 320 anti-aircraft turrets, 48 heavy naval guns, 12 tactical missile silos.

Shields: Three layers of overlapping Void shields, theoretically capable of withstanding direct hits from battleship-grade main batteries.

At this moment, that fortress was roaring in anger.

Countless anti-aircraft turrets pointed at the sky, pouring orange-red tracer rounds upward like a dense rain.

The roar of the flak guns penetrated the atmosphere and reached the Thunderhawk's cockpit.

Missiles rose from silos trailing white smoke, tracing curved trajectories in the air as they attempted to lock onto the intruders' positions.

"Enemy aircraft approaching," V-07's voice suddenly rose.

"Twelve o'clock direction. High altitude. Quantity... forty-seven craft."

N-05 looked up.

A cluster of small black dots appeared in the clouds.

They were diving down at supersonic speeds, the weapon pylons under their wings flashing with ready red lights.

His tactical visor locked onto the lead fighter.

["Siren" Type IV Interceptor]

[Power System: Small Nuclear Fusion Reactor]

[Maximum Speed: Mach 2.3]

[Armament: Two 30mm rapid-fire autocannons, four air-to-air missiles]

[Threat Level: Low]

"Low-power nuclear fusion engine," N-05's voice was calm.

"Weapon systems are two generations behind. Their designers are still stuck in the mindset of planetary civil wars."

"How to handle them?" V-07 asked.

"Clear the obstacles."

N-05 did not perform any evasive maneuvers.

He pushed the throttle to the floor, making the "Night Owl's" engines let out a deafening roar.

Then, his right index finger pressed the fire button.

"Forward Turbolasers."

"Fire."

Zzzzt—!!!

A blinding red beam shot out from the nose of the "Night Owl."

The working principle of a Turbolaser was simple: compress high-energy plasma to a critical density, then release it as a focused beam of light under the constraint of a magnetic field.

The temperature of this beam was more than three times that of the sun's surface, enough to vaporize any known substance upon contact.

The beam struck the leading "Siren."

There was no explosion.

There were no fragments.

The fighter's silhouette expanded and distorted within the beam, then vanished.

Metal, Fuel, electronic components, the pilot's flesh—everything was converted into high-temperature plasma gas within 0.02 seconds and then scattered by the airflow.

Only a small cloud of white vapor remained in the air.

It stayed for less than half a second before being torn apart, diluted, and vanished without a trace by the surrounding air.

"Target eliminated," N-05 said.

His finger pressed the fire button again.

Zzzzt—!

The second "Siren" vanished.

Zzzzt—!

The third.

Zzzzt—! Zzzzt—! Zzzzt—!

The Turbolasers fired continuously at a frequency of three shots per second.

Every beam hit its target with precision.

Every fighter hit was vaporized instantly, leaving not even wreckage behind.

N-05's expression did not change in the slightest.

His hands steadily controlled the Thunderhawk's course, his eyes tracked every blip flashing on the radar screen, and his fingers rhythmically pressed the fire button.

The remaining "Siren" squadron finally reacted.

They scattered in terror, trying to escape the range of the laser cannons.

A few bold fighters attempted to return fire before retreating, their 30mm autocannons pouring a hail of bullets toward the Thunderhawk.

Ding ding ding ding ding.

The bullets hit the Thunderhawk's armor, making crisp impacting sounds.

N-05 glanced down at the instrument panel.

[Armor Integrity: 99.97%]

Not even the paint was scratched.

"Continue the advance," his voice rang out on the channel.

"Target: Shield generator."

The three Thunderhawk Gunships regrouped, noses tilting downward, and began their dive into the dense anti-aircraft fire from below...