The next morning, Kenthelion walked into the conference room. One by one, the holographic screens lit up, displaying the faces of the seven generals from the frontlines.
After reviewing all the available information, they began to piece together the maps they had explored.
"Are these orcs?" Kenthelion asked, staring at the screen.
"This emperor is indeed from a brown-skinned orc branch," Wallfield replied. "Their main strength is still unknown, but they're estimated to be about the size of a tribe."
"Mothers, wives, and daughters of warriors in one of our territories reported being sold here," Wallfield added, his tone serious.
Kenthelion frowned, the image of the race lingering in his mind.
"If these really are the Krock," he thought, "I'm ready to launch a full-scale assault. They're a strange race — piles of hammered metal turned into warships and mechs, yet still deadly effective on the battlefield."
"They're just regular orcs," Wallfield said. "They've turned into a militarized nation that frequently raids other countries on the outer rim."
Speyer spoke with a trembling voice, holding back his anger: "They have no morals. Not a single blade of grass grows in the lands they control."
"Ordinary aliens only deal with things written in books, but these orcs are different. More savage than black beasts. They use standard equipment but commit unspeakable atrocities," Kenthelion said.
"When the Black Templar Squad encountered them, they called them 'Xenos filth,' 'Greenskins,' 'Abominations,' 'Heretical beasts,' and 'Waaagh-spawned scum.'"
Kenthelion raised his hand. "Enough. Destroy them to the last."
Kenthelion stared at the holographic projection displaying the territory of the Brok'Mor Empire—home of the brutal and plundering brown orcs. The glowing starmap bathed his sharp features in a cold, blue light.
"Speyer Armada, prepare to strike," Kenthelion commanded, his voice calm but resolute. The order was met with silent nods from the generals surrounding the table.
Although the Brok'Mor Empire was still far from the star systems under Kenthelion's control, retreat was not an option. He instructed his commanders to send more transport ships and ground troops.
"We won't resupply back and forth," he declared. "We'll supply on-site."
In other words: plunder everything.
"These orcs love raiding others?" Kenthelion sneered. "Then let them taste what it's like to be pillaged themselves."
Using the starmap, Kenthelion and his generals decided on their next move—occupy the border planets first. Then, lure the main Brok'Mor army away from their capital starfield and force them into a decisive battle on Kenthelion's terms.
"It doesn't matter if the enemy doesn't come."
Kenthelion's voice was calm, yet carried the weight of unwavering authority.
"We'll proceed step by step. Every time we conquer a planet or galaxy, we'll establish a forward supply base right then and there. We'll take whatever we can. Slowly but surely, we'll expand into their territory."
He stared at the vast starmap projected before him, glowing with countless celestial bodies.
"I don't believe for a second that they'll just sit back while every one of their planets is butchered and burned."
But reality on the front lines was far from ideal.
The current number of Space Marines was nothing short of disgraceful.
Kenthelion didn't have the luxury of assembling a full battle group. The Speyer Armada was still light-years away from Terra Aeterna. Logistics were a nightmare—credits, raw materials, supply chains, maintenance—every single thing required war points. And if this campaign went ahead as planned, they wouldn't be earning any.
They'd be bleeding points just to stay alive.
The Space Marines he had now? Most were over forty years old.
No fresh blood.
Many of them barely recognized one another, especially since they had been summoned by the system from rival factions—traitors and loyalists alike. A few even emerged out of nowhere, unclaimed by any known order.
The homegrown Space Marines had already been distributed to other warzones.
The war had escalated into a galactic-scale conflict, and the demand for Space Marines was growing faster than anyone could fill.
Tensions rose when original Black Legion Marines encountered Luna Wolves from the 30K era. Their alliance was fragile—unstable at best.
Yet they fought together.
Iron Warriors, Imperial Fists, Ultramarines, Word Bearers, Emperor's Children, Iron Hands, Thousand Sons, Space Wolves—
Foes once locked in millennia of war—now united under one banner:
The Imperium Caelestis.
Rumors of these united Space Marines had already spread across the universe—
Even to the ruling ears of the Brok'Mor Empire, ruled by the brown-skinned orc king, Brok'Mer.
On every battlefield, the enemy had gone mad with desperation.
One man against a hundred?
Nonsense. That was just human propaganda—
A war of public opinion.