45: Chapter 45: Prelude to the Expedition

Lin Mo had prioritized the three tasks. The first—the orc clearance in the Green Sector—was the gateway. If this could not be completed, Guilliman would not even look at the second or third tasks.

He called Locke over, and the two stood in front of the map in the Intelligence Center for an entire afternoon. The star map of the Green Sector was projected onto the table—this map had been magnified by a projector Old Tom had built himself; the precision was low, but it was enough for Locke to understand the terrain distribution. Locke traced a line on the map with his hand: departing from Hope Star, passing through several days of Warp travel to approach the periphery of the Green Sector, and then advancing in stages.

The path his finger traced on the map was slow—not out of hesitation, but because he was mentally walking through every step of the journey.

"How many men do you intend to take?" Lin Mo asked.

"All of them," Locke said.

The night wind blew again. This gust was cooler than the last, carrying a scent of mixed metal and soil. He wrapped himself tighter in the coarse cloth coat that had already frayed at the edges—it was given to him by the villagers, and it was much warmer than the T-shirt he had been wearing when he first transmigrated.

"How many is 'all of them'?"

"Approximately four hundred men from the garrison who are fit for combat. Plus the air cover from the raven reconnaissance drone, and the communications support from Marcus—that is the maximum limit I can take out."

He did not speak. Four hundred men leaving Blackstone Town meant that the town's defensive strength would be reduced to only that recently formed reserve militia. But he had to choose between staying behind and the expedition—Guilliman would not give him a third option.

"There is one thing I must do before we leave," Locke said.

"What is it?"

Locke pointed to a small dot on the periphery of the Green Sector on the star map—a coordinate marked "Abandoned Forge World." "The range of the raven reconnaissance drone is not enough for a round trip to the Green Sector. We need a transit supply station. This place—although abandoned—should still have usable docking facilities in its orbit."

Lin Mo looked at the coordinate for a few seconds, then nodded.

Three days later, the raven reconnaissance drone completed its first interstellar flight test—a round trip from Hope Star to that Abandoned Forge World. Marcus sat in the co-pilot seat, using that old but reliable communication device to record the fluctuation data of the Warp route along the way. The information he brought back was clear: the route was stable, and there was indeed a space station still partially operational in orbit around the Abandoned Forge World.

Locke said, "That is enough."

Lin Mo opened the drawer, took out the mission document signed by Guilliman, and wrote a line in the blank space for the first item: Expeditionary Force departure time—set for the morning of the tenth day. The countdown had already begun.

As he closed the document, Alice walked in from outside. She did not knock—emergency reports from the Medical Station never required knocking. She placed a stack of medical supply lists on his desk, and as she turned to leave, she saw the wound on the web of his right hand that was still seeping blood—it had been cut by a piece of sheet metal while moving ammo crates yesterday.

She did not speak. She reached out, took his right hand, turned it over, and gently pressed the edge of the wound with her index finger.

"It's infected," she said. "Come over and get it treated."

She let go of his hand and turned to walk out the door, her pace faster than usual—because she knew he would come. After she left, Lin Mo looked down at his hand. The warmth on the small patch of skin she had touched still lingered. He stood up and headed toward the Medical Station.

The way time passed on this planet was not quite the same as on Earth. There were no mobile phones to remind him of meetings, no calendars to tell him what day of the week it was. There was only sunrise and sunset, only battle and peace, only living and dying. He used vertical lines in his notebook to record the days, drawing a horizontal line for every five. This primitive method of counting made him feel grounded—at least he knew what day it was.

The wind passed through the ruins, emitting a low, mournful wail, as if something massive were breathing underground. He told himself it was just the wind. But in the warhammer 40k universe, the sound of the wind was never just the wind.

A photograph taken from the Abandoned Forge World; a few lights on the orbital station were still on.

The preparations for the expedition plan consumed more energy than expected. Lin Mo spent an entire night listing the complete inventory of supplies needed by the Expeditionary Force: weapons, ammunition, rations, medical kits, spare parts, and communication equipment. Every item was marked with its quantity and source. By the time he finally finished the list, dawn was approaching. He checked the list from beginning to end, confirmed there were no omissions, and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

When Locke came to retrieve the list after dawn, he saw Lin Mo asleep against the chair. He stood at the door without waking him, simply draped a spare coat over Lin Mo, and then gently closed the door. He stood outside the door for a few seconds and whispered, "You don't even say when you're tired. Just like your people."

The supply list for the expedition plan sat on Lin Mo's desk for a long time. He repeatedly checked every number on that list—rations, ammunition, medicine, spare parts, fuel—the consumption amount for every item had been double-checked by him and Locke. After confirming that all data was precise and accurate, he did not immediately order the execution, but instead did something more discreet. He found Old Tom and asked him to secretly prepare an extra set of spare engine parts for the expedition's combat vehicles. Old Tom did not ask why—he simply nodded and pulled a few night shifts to rush out those parts.

Locke did not say any unnecessary words at the final meeting before departure. He checked everyone's equipment, confirmed that the ammunition baseline was sufficient, and then announced the departure time. After the meeting, he walked to the door and lit a cigarette. Lin Mo stood next to him and lit one as well. The two stood in the morning mist and finished their cigarettes, neither of them speaking. The roster for the first four hundred members of the Expeditionary Force had been confirmed—when that cigarette was finished, Locke crushed the butt under his foot, and Lin Mo extinguished his at the same time. Then, Locke turned and walked into the ranks.

The light in the Medical Station was always the last one to go out in Blackstone Town. Sometimes, when Lin Mo passed by late at night, he could see the silhouette of someone working with their head down reflected on the oiled paper window. He never went in to disturb her—but he would slow his pace, confirm that the light was still on, and then continue back to the Intelligence Center. He did not know if Alice noticed those footsteps slowing down outside the window. But he knew that if one day that light went out, he would stand in front of the window for a long time.

In this universe, hope is a luxury. Not because it is rare, but because it is fragile—like a match burning in a sandstorm, liable to be blown out at any moment. But he had discovered an interesting thing: when you gather many matches together and light them, they are not so easily extinguished. Everyone in Blackstone Town was one of those matches gathered together. Take any single one of them, and they could be blown out by the Chaos storm in the next second. But when gathered together, the light and heat they emitted were enough to make the surrounding darkness retreat a few steps. —Lin Mo, Equipment Inspection Record on the Eve of the Expedition.

The wind outside the window passed through the treetops, making a faint rustling sound. The light from the torches on the distant watchtower flickered in the wind, like a sentry standing in the darkness, refusing to fall. Lin Mo watched for a moment, then withdrew his gaze.

But he did not know that the moonlight tonight was more suitable for hunting than any other day's moonlight.

Alice's expression was somewhat unusual that day. Lin Mo noticed it when passing by the Medical Station—while treating the wounded, her fingers would occasionally pause, as if she were suppressing something. He walked in and asked, "Are you okay?"

Alice looked up and glanced at him. There was something in her eyes he had never seen before—not exhaustion, not fear, but an emotion similar to anger, suppressed deep within.

"I need more medical supplies," she said. Her tone was as calm as usual. But her knuckles turned white as she gripped the hemostat.

Lin Mo did not press. He knew that when she didn't want to talk, pressing would only make her close the door tighter. He simply said, "Tomorrow I will have Old Tom prioritize making hemostats."

He closed his eyes and arranged all the known conditions—just like organizing requirement documents in the past, prioritizing each item, and then drawing out the critical path. There could be no errors on the critical path; the rest could have a margin for error.

As he turned to walk out, he heard a very soft sound behind him, like a sigh or a whisper. He did not turn back. But he made a mental note—Alice was suppressing something. When she was willing to talk, he would be there.

After treating the last patient in the Medical Station that day, Alice sat on the steps at the entrance and stared blankly for a while. The night wind blew through her long, silver-white hair, blowing a few stray locks onto her face. She did not reach out to brush them away—she just sat there, looking at the lights of the Intelligence Center in the distance. The light painted a warm yellow square in the night, like an entrance that was always open in the darkness. She watched for a long time, then stood up and walked back into the Medical Station. She did not walk toward that light—but she confirmed it was still on.

Another day had ended. The number of days he had spent on this planet was slowly becoming a number he dared not think about too closely. But every day he was still alive—that was enough.

[When the Duke of Zhou feared the rumors, and Wang Mang was humble before he usurped the throne. If they had died at that very moment, who would have known the truth of their lives?] — Bai Juyi, "Fang Yan" (Words of Release). One of the memory fragments from the mirror of the emperor.