As the fleet neared the designated Mandeville point, the air inside the flagship's bridge grew increasingly tense. Standing before the holographic projection table, Grendel looked at his diverse "allies" and took a deep breath of the stale, recycled air.
He knew that the imperial fleet, which had yet to show its face, was far less of a headache than the individuals standing right in front of him. Getting this band of lunatics to cooperate was harder than teaching an Ogryn to recite the multiplication tables.
This was especially true of the Thousand Sons sorcerer, Iskara. The man was not only arrogant but also possessed a relentless habit of nitpicking just to show off his so-called "Tzeentch-blessed, superior intellect."
If Grendel were to lay out his carefully calculated, actual battle plan directly, Iskara would absolutely oppose it just for the sake of opposing it—dragging the entire strategic meeting into an endless, pedantic debate merely to display his own cleverness.
So, the Warpsmith's gaze darkened. With a cold sneer in his heart, he decided to put on a carefully choreographed show.
"Listen up," Grendel said, pointing at the rotating star map, deliberately adopting an extremely conservative, rigid, and almost cowardly posture.
"To ensure the fleet's absolute safety at our most vulnerable moment—when we drop out of the Warp—I propose we adopt the classic, highly defensive Anvil Formation. My Iron Warriors fleet will deploy multi-layered void shield arrays at the very front to draw and absorb the potential first wave of enemy fire. The World Eaters and Death Guard warriors will cover the flanks and engage any interceptors. As for the Thousand Sons—"
He paused deliberately, looking toward the sorcerer wearing the towering headdress. "Your ships will bring up the rear, utilizing your powerful psychic abilities to secure the back of the coalition fleet. This is the safest, most cautious option with the lowest projected casualties."
Before he could even finish his sentence, a mocking sneer echoed through the bridge.
"Cautious? Ha!" Iskara slammed his staff heavily against the deck, his eyes flashing with warp-light and utter disdain. "Is this the scope of Perturabo's lineage? Forever digging trenches, building forts, and hiding like cowards! It is a shameful waste of talent! Utterly foolish!"
Grendel rejoiced inwardly; the bait had worked exactly as planned. Outwardly, however, he forced a look of offended rage. "Then what do you suggest, sorcerer? Do you want those brainless, rabid dogs to just rush to their deaths?"
"It is not rushing to death; it is unleashing a torrent of variables at this very moment!" Iskara gestured wildly, as if conducting a grand symphony. "Hiding the sharpest spear behind a shield is an insult to the art of war. We need aggression! We need chaos! We need—"
"Fine, fine!" Grendel interrupted, feigning impatience. "Since you have such brilliant insights, let's switch to a more aggressive plan."
With that, he quickly punched his pre-prepared, actual plan into the console. Instantly, the formations on the holographic star map shifted.
"If it's aggression we want, let the World Eaters lead the charge," Grendel said, pointing to the vanguard arrow. "Your ships have the thickest armor and aren't lacking in speed. Since that maniac wants to butcher things, I'll let him be the first to crash into the enemy lines, acting as the battering ram to breach the Imperial defenses."
"ROAR!!" The World Eaters champion, who had been teetering on the edge of a frenzy, revved his chainaxe into a roaring spin, spraying spit across the deck. "Yes! Excellent! First! Blood for the Blood God! I will turn all their skulls into bowls!"
One down.
Grendel then pointed to the second tier of the formation, turning his gaze toward the Thousand Sons sorcerer, his tone carrying a subtle hint of flattery.
"Since Lord Iskara believes bringing up the rear is beneath your talents, the Thousand Sons fleet will follow right behind them, taking the center position. Once the World Eaters tear open a breach, you will use your magnificent psychic power to exploit the breakthrough and sow chaos. This position is critical—it is the brain of the entire fleet. I believe only you are fit for it."
Iskara's blue helmet tilted upward slightly, clearly pleased by the title of "the brain." He nodded with stiff dignity, his tone softening considerably.
"Hmph, now that looks more like a proper plan. Positioned in the center, we can control the entire battlefield while unleashing sorcery in any direction at a moment's notice. It seems your rusted brain can occasionally spark a flash of brilliance, Grendel. I agree to this arrangement."
Grendel sneered in his mind. Placing these cultists in the center had nothing to do with letting them control the battlefield; it was so he could keep an eye on them.
These followers of Tzeentch were notorious for betraying their allies—the moment things went south, they would run faster than anyone. Left at the rear or on the flanks, they could warp away at any moment. Pinched in the middle, with World Eaters ahead and Iron Warriors behind, they would have no choice but to bite the bullet and fight.
Next, Grendel looked at the remaining two.
"The Emperor's Children and the Death Guard will handle skirmishing and attrition on the flanks."
Festus, the Nurgle worshiper, was still picking at a pustule on his bloated belly. Hearing this, he merely muttered in a slow, wet drawl.
"Whateveeeer... as long as we can spread grandfather's gifts... anywhere is fine..."
Meanwhile, the pink, Slaaneshi champion lord was admiring his newly grown tentacles in a mirror, waving a hand dismissively.
"I don't care, as long as you keep me away from that smelly fat pig. I want to listen to the groans of the Imperial ships' keels snapping. It must sound exquisite."
"Very well." Grendel finally pointed to the very rear of the formation. "Since everyone has chosen an offensive role, I will reluctantly lead the Iron Warriors fleet to hold the rear line. We will provide long-range fire support and block the enemy's retreat with our macro-cannons."
No one objected to this arrangement. In their eyes, the Iron Warriors—who only knew how to play in the mud—were indeed best suited for taking cheap shots from behind.
However, as Grendel stared at his own fleet positioned at the very back of the star map, a fierce, cold light flashed in his eyes.
It was indeed a fire support position, but it was also a rear-guard executioner's post.
He understood perfectly that this was a battle for the very survival of the Maelstrom's Chaos forces. If they lost, they faced nothing but total annihilation at the hands of Huron.
"All Iron Warriors, hear my command," Grendel transmitted through an internal comms channel to his brothers, his voice as cold as iron, delivering the order he had withheld from the council. "Keep your fire-control radars locked not just on the Imperial fleet ahead, but at the engines of our 'allies' in front of us at all times."
"In this battle, there is only victory or death. If anyone dares to flee the line, blow them to pieces."
"Iron Within, Iron Without."
With the confirmation of the final command, the massive, chaotic joint fleet, carrying their respective twisted desires and madness, finally arrived at the jump point. The veil of the Warp was about to be torn open; the stars of Badab were destined to be set ablaze.