[h2][u]The Jade Citadel of Hongol - Outside the City Limits[/u][/h2][h3][u]The Panpacific Empire[/u][/h3] [hr][hr] The formations of Battlegroup Pacifica had been drawn up out of view of their objective. Thousands of war machines and millions of men were arrayed, ready for the final push against the Jade Citadel of Hongol, the last of the tyrant Narthan Dume’s bastions. Astartes in some of the largest numbers yet deployed concurrently readied their arms and armor for the struggle to come. All of these forces were gathered at this point under the banner of the Raptor, at the will and command of their Emperor. They would depose the mad genius from his throne room atop the central hive tower and free the people of the Pacifican wastes. They would cast down the techno-monstrosities of Narthan Dume and bring peace and prosperity to a populace long enslaved beneath an iron fist. The mortal men and women of the Emperor’s armies anxiously awaited the command to advance, to siege the massive walls of the Citadel, to spill the enemy's blood and bring victory in His name. Even while the majority of this vast Imperial war host waited in dugouts, troop carriers, and huddled around small fires and tarps, the opening moves of the siege were already underway. An artillery duel between the Citadel’s defenders and the Imperial attackers was raging just a few kilometers forward of the Imperial lines. For those that had not witnessed the Siege of Sanctii in those far off northern lands or the fall of Abyssna, the exchange of fire was apocalyptic. The report of cannons was unending, and the far off distant rumble of the havoc they were causing was a mere undertone to the cacophony of explosions that was the Jade Citadel’s counter battery fire. On any regular day, on any regular front, the average frontline Imperial Trooper would have envied the artilleryman. To be kilometers distant from stubber and sniper fire, or a forty five minute walk removed from the business end of a bayonet, that was something to be envied. As the trooper’s friends and comrades died in the mud, the artilleryman supped on recaf and huddled around campfires to the comforting smells of vat-grown protein analogs. But today was no regular day. The artillery response from the Jade Citadel on the artillery positions had stopped everything going on in the myriad Imperial camps and staging areas. It had been sudden, as if a curtain of fire had simply appeared along the lines of the artillery positions. The world ending response from the Pacificans was overwhelming. It drowned out the sound of the Imperial guns with ease, and turned every head, transhuman and mortal alike, in the Imperial camps in the direction of the immense show of destructive power. There was not a frontline trooper that envied the artilleryman at that moment, no soul brave enough to wish their positions were switched. The apocalyptic scene subsided after an agonizing ten minute artillery duel. Imperial auspex ranged and pinpointed Pacifican gun positions as artillery crews frantically tuned firing solutions and exterminated what Pacifican guns they could before they too were simply evaporated by Pacifican responses. Crews along the line lucky enough to be in possession of self-propelled guns like the Basilisk abandoned their masterfully dug firing position. Ripping up flakboard siding and earth as they shot and moved trying to stay ahead of the Pacifican response. Those without the fortunes of a self propelled gun simply fired as quickly as they could, crews working furiously to thin the number of Pacifican guns before they were deleted from existence by their enemy’s response.[hr][hr] The grey armored Astartes stopped short of the makeshift road as a random assortment of vehicles sped past from the direction of the artillery emplacements. The grey figure watched on in pity as the vehicles surged by. A Chimera troop transport, dying men and frantic medicae piled atop its roof and the blazing sword of the Abyssinian Fourth Cavalry on its side streaked in blood left no doubt in the Astartes mind that these vehicles had been requisitioned for casualty evacuation from the surrounding frontline units. She coldly wondered if the reassignment of frontline transports and units for such tasks would delay the siege further. “The artillerymen suffered this day,” Elena, her Adjutant, voxed privately to her. “Indeed, I only hope they inflicted more pain on the foe.” Captain Costas agreed. As the last of the makeshift medical evacuation vehicles rumbled by, the Astartes of the Seventeenth continued to their legion staging point. Her armor notified her of an incoming data packet though it didn’t allow her the chance to accept or deny it as the sender overrode her own control on such things. A moment later the databurst arrived on her helmet display. The Raptor Imperialis told her all she needed to know of why such a transmission had bypassed her own control, the vermillion level identity code scrolling past her eyes only served to confirm that notion. Text scrolled past her vision, no doubt the same was happening on every screen and helmet display across the entire theater. ++COMMANDER, BATTLE GROUP PACIFICUS TO ALL FORCES++ ++ASSAULT TO BEGIN IN TEN MINUTES++ ++THIS DATABURST TO RESET CHRONOMETERS AS NEEDED++ ++FOR THE GLORY OF THE MASTER OF THE LINE++ ++IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR++ A second databurst followed with detailed tactical instructions and strategic considerations relating specifically to the Seventeenth. Costas devoured the information in only a couple of heartbeats before she picked up her pace to the Seventeenth’s assembly area. There was war to be made.[hr][hr] Legion Master Scraphurst, leader of the 8th legion, once more found himself gazing upon his new augmetic hand. The actual machinery was hidden under the armor, but he could still tell the difference. Even as he moved his fingers without any hesitation or lag, in his mind he knew that instead of flesh and blood, there was metal and wires underneath. As the 8th legion moved around in order to prepare for the assault that was coming, something that was readily apparent to those tallying the make up of Imperial forces was that the legion had relatively small armoured support when compared to other legions; The losses due to the surprise macro shelling by the Tyrant of his own Highway had the misfortune of landing almost directly on top of the 8th’s position and cost them a lot of their armoured support. They had salvaged and repaired what they could, alongside the arrival of replacements and reinforcements, but while the Imperium was proving itself to be an industrial juggernaut, the logistics of producing and shipping battle tanks still took time and the 8th weren’t the only fighting force the Imperium needed supplied. This meant that they would largely be playing an infantry role in the assault to come. That was fine in Scraphurst’s opinion. As he clenched his metal, armored fist he glanced over at his preparing Astartes… and couldn’t help but feel a dark grin manifest on his face as he noticed a modified version of an old friend being wielded by members of certain squads. Alchemical weapons played a role in the constant gang warfare of Mercia’s various hive cities. While most gangs preferred autoguns and other simple weapons due to their commonality and ease of maintenance, those who were clever and pragmatic enough to understand and use chem weaponry understood the versatile nature of such things and the limits of what you could unleash were those of creative thinking. A number of such gangs had been recruited into the 8th, through their collaborative efforts to make use of their collected knowledge combined with Imperial resources and science had only recently borne fruit in the form of the Astartes grade Chem-Thrower. While the basic design seemed to be that of flamer, the Chem-Thrower was designed from the ground up with the idea of containing and firing streams of highly dangerous and deadly substances in both liquid and gas form, the exact mixture of which to be tailored for each encounter. Several Astartes had already donned the backpack that stored and fed their deadly payloads into their weapons. The payload selected was a highly acidic gas that, while it required a direct concentrated blast to have a chance to eat through the metal of power armor, would easily consume anything softer that wasn’t designed to resist it within moments of exposure. This had also required some additions to the standard gear of the 8th legion as a whole. Since Imperial power armor wasn’t environmentally sealed, the 8th had opted to requisition hazmat suits tailored for acid damage to wear [i]under[/i] their armor. In order to protect these suits further from possible damage, as power armor only really protected the arms and chest, an admittingly haphazard collection of lesser mesh armor had been acquired in order to cover where the power armor failed to protect to the best of each man's ability. The results were… not pretty to behold. They also generally made more noise when moving than the standard power armor caused as well, with rings of metal mesh clinking on top of everything else. There were going to be those who laughed at them for appearing comical. This would hopefully be worth not killing themselves or their battle brothers with their own chemical weaponry. Only time and the future death toll would tell. [hr][hr] Hongol. For decades, he had been prepared to one day assault the Jade Palace of Narthan Dume. It mattered little if it had been when he was mortal or when he had ascended to become one of the Emperor’s Astartes. From the sands of the Achaemenid to the jungles of Indoi, he had felt their touch on each invasion. How many Astartes had perished to their tactics? How many of the Thirteenth will perish in this assault alone? He felt no need for it to be answered. They are His weapons. They are His scorpions. They will succeed or they will die. The chronometer ticked down inside of Legion Master Zaid ibn N’dar’s helmet. It was a minor annoyance compared to the overwhelming amount of data that scrolled over his eyes. His entire legion was employed in this siege, each of them as if they were a thousand and one grains of black sand. They were the most numerous present in terms of numbers, despite losses taken from the ambush on the macroway. Groups of lethal scorpions, colloquially granted the term assassin squads, were tactically planted throughout the invasion. He watched them advance as their timers ticked down, preparing their eventual climb and following breach. Zaid flexed his newly christened mechanical fist, colorfully painted crimson against his black-bronze carapace. A reminder of shame. A reminder of duty. A reminder of justice. Hongol would be his retribution, or it would be his grave. He no longer held the Spear of Abbaba, another tool taken from him for the vaults. His chainaxe would suffice, chains dangling from pommel to wrist. He was prepared to begin the assault, a camoeline cloak strewn about his armored form. Hundreds of other Scorpions were like him, cloaked in one manner or another. The most venerable position of wall-taker, however, was not his. A spread of Immortals, similarly garbed in cameoline cloaks, waited around him in a half-circle as the siege began to pick up in intensity. He could feel their frustration at being denied the honor. It was understandable. They would climb just as he did and succeed in their task, yet know that the achievement of gate-breacher would slip from their grasp. They would come to know why. He trusted only the witch-minds of his legion to this task. They had grown substantially from nothing and paled in comparison to the Fifteenth; however, they were born of sand and umbral dreams. His gaze shifted to the chronometer. Mere seconds remained. The scorpions drew themselves closer as insects hidden beneath dark dunes. The hunt was close. He knew that the umbral world was evident on their lips. Zaid felt it himself as the walls of Hongol rose overhead. He refused to immerse himself until the time was ripe. One last order to relay. +‘Take the gates. Kill the Pacificans.’+ His voice growled through the Thirteenth’s voxnet. [hr][hr] The legions were drawn up. Thousands of Astartes waited silently in trench lines, embarked in armored transports, or hidden beneath cameleoline cloaks as the seconds ticked by. Their chronometers were all synced perfectly to the headquarters timeline, each transhuman warrior counting down perfectly as the time of release approached rapidly. Beyond these smaller formations, hundreds of thousands of mortals waited anxiously in similar positions. They had heard of the slaughter that had taken place at similar sieges, they knew of the near-legendary status of Sanctii, some of the more senior officers had even been present at that battle though they had been lowly line officers then. Not a man among them counted themselves lucky to be arrayed in their formations here, though they all knew their cause was just; they feared their mortality all the same. “Three minutes” Elena voxed to the command squad of the Seventeenth. “Thank you Elena, but we all have the time available to us.” Costas replied, a hint of derision in her voice. She was focused on her legions deployment plans, three different axes of advance, three different objectives, more than fifty supporting mortal formations to work with. She wished she had the Meridian Gate, wished she could have concentrated her forces upon such a simple and glorious engagement, but she was subservient to the will of the Sigilite, and in turn His will.[hr][hr] A rocky scarp rose far from the Jade Citadel, and there sat an old man on an unsteady folding chair, waiting for his tea to be ready. The pot was beautiful, despite its many chips, but the cup he held ready was a dented piece of metal. It didn’t fit the pot or the man, but it was his favorite nonetheless. It helped to be almost as old as him. “Almost time,” he whispered to himself.[hr][hr]