291: Chapter 292 Decay

One fleet was centered around Adeptus Arbites Punisher-class cruisers.

Their hulls were painted pitch-black, patrolling the edge of the anchorage like a pack of cold-blooded hounds.

The other was a fleet of pilgrim vessels that had retreated in disarray from the Ecclesiarchy's northern defense line.

Huge, pure-gold double-headed eagles were carved onto their prows, but the wings symbolizing the glory of the empire had long since been broken.

Imperial Navy flagship, bridge.

The cogitator arrays emitted a monotonous hum.

The air was filled with a pungent, sour stench of mixed coolant, incense, and aged sweat.

Intelligence officer Brock stood before a tactical panel.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he was mechanically piecing together and categorizing garbled information transmitted back from various channels.

The Great Rift tore the galaxy apart.

The Warp storm was like a boiling thick soup, completely dividing the various star sectors.

The entire Ghoul Stars had completely cut off news from Holy Terra.

Isolated and helpless.

As more and more Chaos forces gathered in the north, the Imperial Navy stationed here was beaten back step by step.

But Brock knew it clearly in his heart.

Losing battles and the navy constantly retreating was by no means solely because the enemy was too strong, but rather because...

He patted his forehead, forcibly driving those treasonous thoughts out of his mind.

He lowered his head again to analyze the intelligence.

Suddenly.

An encrypted rune jumped on the screen.

Decryption, decoding, reorganization.

Brock suddenly widened his eyes.

In his dim, turbid pupils, a flash of irrepressible ecstatic light burst forth.

There is hope!

Intelligence showed that the Knight Houses and Adeptus Mechanicus in the southern part of the Ghoul Stars had finally responded to the call for help from the Red Shield Fortress!

Currently, a massive Knight fleet and Skitarii were assembling, rapidly approaching the Shadow Corridor!

Brock grabbed a handwritten parchment and stumbled out of the bridge.

He passed through two heavily guarded hatchways.

The sickening smell of engine oil in the air had vanished, replaced by the fragrance of expensive incense and aged liquor.

A luxurious office inlaid with mahogany and gold appeared at the end of the corridor.

Brock straightened his crooked collar, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

A few soft knocks.

"Come in."

A lazy male voice came from inside.

Brock pushed the door open and entered.

The thick velvet carpet absorbed his footsteps.

He strode up to the desk carved from a single piece of precious log and knelt on one knee.

"Lord Admiral!"

Brock swallowed a mouthful of saliva, his voice trembling with excitement,

"We have received exact news! The Knight Houses and Adeptus Mechanicus in the south have responded to the request for aid, and they are currently dispatching forces to gather toward our side!"

Report concluded.

Brock lowered his head, waiting for the supreme Commander's orders.

Should he immediately ready the fleet to welcome the allies? Or take advantage of the momentum to plan a counterattack route?

One second, ten seconds, half a minute...

The man sitting in the wide leather swivel chair did not answer.

Death-like silence.

As a low-ranking intelligence officer, Brock knew that his life, in the eyes of this Admiral from Holy Terra, was no different from the mutated rats at the bottom of the hold.

He dared not make a sound, nor did he dare urge him.

Cold sweat poured frantically down his spine, soaking his undergarments.

Several minutes passed.

Brock's knees began to ache.

He finally mustered the courage of a lifetime, slightly raised his head, and stole a glance at the Admiral.

At that instant.

Brock felt a certain string in his brain snap.

Lord Admiral, dressed in a luxurious military uniform with pure gold medals hanging all over his chest, was leaning against the back of the chair.

He had his eyes closed.

A trace of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth.

He was asleep.

At this moment when the defense line was about to collapse and hundreds of thousands of navy soldiers were ready to die.

This fleet supreme Commander actually fell asleep peacefully in the luxurious office.

Brock opened his mouth, as if someone had choked his throat, unable to make a single sound.

An absurd sense of helplessness flooded his entire body.

He didn't know what to do now.

Just at this moment.

"Clack, clack, clack."

The crisp sound of leather boots stepping on the metal deck came from outside the door.

A tall, slender figure strode into the office.

The newcomer wore a magnificent robe and covered most of their face with silk.

As soon as he entered, he saw Brock kneeling on the ground in a daze, as well as the snoring Admiral.

The newcomer was stunned for a moment.

Afterward, he was furious.

But he did not roar loudly; instead, he strode forward, raised his leather boot, and kicked the edge of the solid wood desk fiercely.

"Bang!"

The crystal wine glass on the table wobbled, and the amber liquor spilled out.

The Admiral woke up with a start.

He instinctively reached for the sidearm at his waist, but after seeing who it was, his hand movement stopped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brock caught a glimpse of the insignia on the newcomer's robe, and his heart trembled violently.

It turned out to be Lord Navigator!

As part of the High Lords, the Navigator faction had to be treated politely even by fleet admirals.

"My dear Navigator lord."

The Admiral rubbed his sleepy eyes, his tone carrying a trace of displeasure at being disturbed,

"Is there something? Next time you come in, please knock first."

Afterwards, he glanced at Brock on the ground as if shooing a fly.

"Get lost!"

Brock felt as if granted amnesty.

He quickly scrambled up from the ground, cringed, and backed out of the office.

But he didn't go far.

The thick mahogany door could not block the impending argument inside.

Or rather, the big figures inside didn't care at all about being overheard by the bottom-feeders outside.

Five minutes later.

The fleet Political Commissar and the accompanying Tech-Priest were urgently summoned into the office.

"Military opportunity! This is a once-in-a-lifetime military opportunity!"

The Navigator's voice was sharp and piercing, carrying a somewhat neurotic excitement,

"The Chaos fleet in the north has new movements! My third eye sees it very clearly; a rare window of calm has appeared in the Warp storm, and their flank is exposed. If we sortie now, we can cut them off at the waist!"

"Enough."

The Admiral picked up the crystal glass, took a sip of wine, and spoke in an indifferent voice,

"Lord Navigator, seeing the path is your duty, but when to open fire and how to fight are the jurisdiction of us in the Imperial Navy. You have overstepped your authority, and furthermore, you have no right to make military remarks."

"Overstepped authority?!"

The Navigator was provoked by these words and slammed the tabletop,

"Without me, your fleet couldn't even steer out of its berths! I want to initiate a joint conference vote! Immediately summon all high-level fleet members to vote!"

"A vote? Simply a joke."

Beside them, the fleet Political Commissar dispatched by the Administrative Department sneered.

He straightened his crisp black uniform, his eyes looking like a viper.

"Lord Navigator, even if the vote passes, what do we have to fight with?"

The Political Commissar suddenly turned his head, staring fixedly at the Admiral,

"Lord Admiral, shouldn't you explain why the one million tons of high-purity cesium fuel that should have been supplied last month haven't even cast a shadow by now?"

The Admiral's expression sank slightly:

"The supply line was cut off by the Warp storm, material attrition, what is there to explain?"

"The storm cut off the supply line?"

The Political Commissar laughed out of extreme anger, directly playing his trump card,

"Yet how did I hear that on the black market of Black Port Fortress, a large batch of standard fuel barrels suddenly appeared? Those damn Rogue Traders are reselling supplies that originally belonged to the fleet at ten times the price! Lord Admiral, how much of a cut did you take from this smuggling business?"

"Impudent!"

The Admiral abruptly stood up, his hand pressing onto the gun hilt,

"You are slandering a fleet Commander appointed by Holy Terra!"

"I am a Political Commissar! My duty is to keep an eye on parasites of the state like you!" The Political Commissar did not yield at all.

"Enough! Logic error! All wrong!"

A harsh electronically synthesized voice interrupted the two.

The Tech-Priest, covered all over in plugged-in metal pipelines, let out a roar like grinding gears.

He waved his mechanical tentacles, pointing at the two.

"Fuel is not the core issue! The machine spirit is angry!"

The Tech-Priest's red optical prosthetic eyes flickered wildly,

"Out of thirty-six cruisers, the plasma reactors of twenty are already at the overload critical point! Without holy lubricating oil, without enough Tech-Priests to perform the appeasement rituals, forcing an ignition to sortie will cause the reactors to melt down directly!"

"Then go appease them! Go fix them!" the Navigator roared.

"With what shall we fix them?!"

The Tech-Priest's mechanical voice peaked to the highest decibel,

"The previous batch of precious alloys and spare parts allocated to the Mars Order were embezzled by your Navy Logistics Department by a full seventy percent under the pretext of battle damage!

You sold those parts to the gangs at the bottom of the Hive City to build smuggling ships! Now you expect us to send junk onto the battlefield? The omnissiah will send down divine punishment!"

"You tin can, make yourself clear! That was the Administrative Department holding up the approval procedures!"

"Bullshit! It was you navy officers lining your own pockets!"

Inside the office.

The Navigator looked at the three people accusing each other, exposing each other's shortcomings, with faces red and necks thick.

The third eye hidden beneath the gem beat wildly.

Completely rotten.

Rotten to the bone marrow.

The enemy's fleet had pressed right to their doorstep.

The fleeting military opportunity was right before their eyes.

But the Imperial Navy's command tier, the Administrative Department, and Adeptus Mechanicus dragged down the pace of the entire fleet for the interests of their respective factions and to cover up each other's corruption and incompetence.

Institutional internal friction, like a stinking mire, trapped everyone inside.

No one truly cared if the defense line would collapse.

No one cared how many soldiers died on the frontline.

They only cared about their own dividends, their own power, and who would take the blame in the event of a defeat.

Outside the door.

Brock didn't leave; possessed by some strange impulse, he leaned against the cold metal bulkhead and listened to the shouting inside.

A short while ago, that hint of ecstasy upon learning of the imminent arrival of the allied forces had now completely turned into a piercing chill.

He raised his head, looking at the somewhat faded double-headed eagle flag at the end of the corridor.

Brock suddenly felt.

Even if the southern reinforcements really arrived at the Red Shield Fortress,

This defense line, thoroughly corroded by greed and stupidity, probably couldn't be defended anymore.

At this moment, Brock, who had constantly been receiving all kinds of information, despaired: "Perhaps, we are doomed to destruction? Ever since the day the Emperor's light could no longer shine?"