Chapter 379: Space Wolves
In a simply furnished but heavy-as-iron reception room within the Imperial Palace, the mountain-like figure of Rogal Dorn stood tall. Before him were several Wolf Lords from the world of Fenris.
They were draped in heavy wolf pelts hunted on the harsh ice plains, their bodies seemingly carrying the arctic winds and the smoky scent of campfires, forming a sharp contrast with the solemnity of the palace.
Dorn did not engage in any polite pleasantries. His voice was steady and cold, as unquestionable as the man himself.
"The enemy is corrupting the Imperium from within," he addressed the core issue directly, his gaze sweeping over every Wolf Lord. "Certain Navigator Houses are abusing their ancient privileges, weaving webs in the dark."
"In the Senatorum Imperialis, some have placed their own interests before the will of the Emperor."
"Rogue Traders. The Imperium gave them the freedom to explore the sea of stars, yet now they wish to turn the future of the Imperium into just another hoarded commodity in their cargo holds."
He paused slightly, letting the weight of his words sink into the silence.
"Your mission is this: find the vipers among the Navigators and extract their fangs; make those overly talkative High Lords understand that sometimes, keeping their mouths shut is their greatest contribution to the Imperium; as for those overstepping Rogue Traders, use the only language they understand—iron and blood—to carve the Imperium's bottom line back into their bones."
The Wolf Lords listened quietly, their eyes like ice-wolves locked onto their prey, flashing with a cold and focused light.
Low, guttural growls—sounding as if they came from the depths of glaciers and ancient longhouses—echoed in the room, signifying their unconditional acceptance of the order.
Purging these enemies hiding in the shadows of civilization was exactly the duty entrusted to them, and the method they excelled at.
However, when Dorn's topic turned to the final, and most thorny part: "Furthermore, within the Martian Adeptus Mechanicus, the tide of opposition is gathering. They view this technology as a challenge to their ancient authority. We must suppress them and prevent them from taking more extreme actions..."
At this moment, the leading Wolf Lord, Yorick the Butcher, a veteran whose hair and beard were completely white and whose face was carved with age and battle scars yet whose battle-lust still roared like a rainbow, took a step forward.
Yorick stood straight. His posture carried the respect due to a Primarch, but harbored no cowardice.
His voice was deep and steady, carrying the rock-like firmness unique to Fenrisians: "Lord Dorn, your orders are clear. Purging the vermin in the shadows of Terra is the unavoidable duty of the wolves of Fenris. Those Navigators, politicians, and war profiteers will soon understand that the Emperor's hounds are in position."
He changed the subject, his tone becoming more pragmatic, like a veteran evaluating different battlefields: "But Mars is another domain. That is the territory of the Adeptus Mechanicus, filled with data networks, credos of steel, and their ancient, rusting secret treaties."
He raised his head, looking frankly at Dorn: "The cousins of the First Legion are better suited for that kind of battlefield. They have enough patience to deal with those enigmas, and their own methods for solving problems. Please leave Terra to us; we will make the things in the shadows pay the price. As for Mars, it is more appropriate to let the First Legion handle it."
Dorn listened in silence. His weathered, stone-carved face showed no emotional fluctuation, but deep within his sharp gaze, he was rapidly weighing the options.
Yorick's analysis hit the nail on the head—dealing with Mars required more than just martial prowess; it required the ability to understand and infiltrate that complex system.
The secrecy, discipline, and hunting instincts for ancient secrets of the Dark Angels were indeed the more suitable tools at this moment.
A moment later, Dorn made his decision. His voice remained steady, yet carried the weight of a final verdict: "Your judgment holds value, Wolf Lord Yorick. Then, the cleanup operations on Terra will be entirely your responsibility. As for Mars..."
He did not continue speaking, but the action had already begun; another encrypted vox-transmission had already been sent by him.
With the resolution set, the operation unfolded as swiftly as a Fenrisian storm.
The Space Wolves did not announce their arrival with great fanfare. Instead, like a wolf pack slipping into a forest, they silently blended into the massive and complex ecology of Terra.
The Space Wolves' actions were swift and deadly, carrying the precision and efficiency unique to the pack.
Their methods appeared brutal but were absolutely not blind. Every strike pointed straight to the core of the problem, achieving strategic objectives through the simplest and most direct means.
Deep within a spire used by a certain Navigator House for plotting, a secret meeting aimed at interfering with the Adeptus Astra Telepathica's communications was taking place.
Suddenly, the thick, reinforced glass windows shattered. It was not an explosion from the main doors, but a precise breach from the outside.
Accompanied by flying crystal shards, several towering figures draped in wolf pelts, their power armor still carrying the chill of outer space, burst into the room.
The roar of chainaxes instantly replaced the previous whispered conspiracies.
There was no warning, no negotiation, only targeted elimination.
When the surviving family members recovered from their shock and the gore, they found that those core members who had most actively planned the sabotage had all fallen in pools of blood. The attackers had already quietly withdrawn, leaving behind only wolf-claw-like marks and the heavy stench of blood at the scene as a warning.
At the same time, an official who was most active in the high councils—repeatedly using procedural review and budget allocation as excuses to obstruct the warp engine project—found his luxurious mansion atop the hive spire subjected to a targeted assault.
A well-equipped squad of Grey Hunters carrying melta weapons breached the mansion's security, acting cleanly and efficiently.
They did not harm the official's family members, but precisely destroyed his private data core and all external communication equipment, and thoroughly pulverized his treasured antique starship model.
The only clue left at the scene was a rugged, Fenrisian-style iron wolf-fang sigil—a self-evident warning.
That same night, several orbital warehouses marked by intelligence as being used for illegal trading and hoarding critical supplies with Rogue Traders almost simultaneously erupted in bizarre green flames.
The fires caused by this special incendiary agent were extremely difficult to extinguish. When the fire-suppression ships arrived, they could only watch as the warehouse structures, along with all the cargo inside, silently turned to ash in the vacuum.
Afterward, investigators found non-standard bolter casings in the ruins, as well as deep, claw-shaped dents left on the ground by power weapons.
This series of events triggered strong tremors within Terra's specific circles of power.
The message spread rapidly through the shadow networks: The wolves have been unleashed.
Everyone understood that this signified Rogal Dorn's will was being executed in the most unquestionable manner.
The voices of opposition noticeably restrained themselves as a result. Many originally active factions began to re-evaluate the risks, and the surface wave of opposition temporarily fell into an unnatural low tide.
However, this was merely the prelude.
The claws of the Space Wolves had only torn open the outermost layer of disguise, revealing the deeper darkness beneath.
The true threat involving forbidden technology within Mars, and the deep resistance network of the Navigator Houses stretching across ten millennia, still surged in the dark.
The true contest had only just begun. This clearing operation by the wolves was more like a clear declaration, drawing the boundary line for the even more complex and dangerous struggles to come.