Chapter 324: Descending from the Sky

The Skaven currently charging into the fortress are poorly equipped, with chaotic markings. The small clans living in Bofeng have submitted to the most powerful Warlord clan, Clan Mors, providing cannon fodder for Queek's operations.

Skaven tactics are very traditional, yet they have been proven extremely effective through thousands of years of bloody warfare. By using massive amounts of cannon fodder to exhaust the Dwarfs' ammunition and stamina, they wait until the shield wall is exhausted, then crush them with elite troops acting as a heavy hammer.

Of course, the premise of this tactic is to ensure the besieged Dwarfs are isolated and without aid. Under the careful instruction of Genuoduoer, Queek has mastered the techniques of tunnel warfare; no messenger has ever escaped Keladeluomen before, and none will in the future.

"Move! Move!"

A minor Warlord drives his subordinates; Genuoduoer is well-versed in the way of both the carrot and the stick. Beyond threats and coercion, it also provides rewards—war beasts, weapons, brood mothers, and even secret elixirs for longevity; of course, all of this must be bought with rat lives.

"Stupid, stupid beard-things will take at least, at least three days to realize the problem. With them, their little pitter-patter back, we have, have five days!" Queek observes the battle from afar, calculating secretly in its heart.

It left Pillar City and headed south, but after sneaking in to scout, it discovered that the strength in Belegar's hands was even greater than before. Just as the Headtaker was jumping up and down in anxiety, wondering whether to seek reinforcements, a scout reported that the Dwarfs had actually split their thousands of troops into two groups and sent them out.

The Headtaker decisively seized this great opportunity. The Skaven easily dealt with a small number of sentries and broke through the outermost wall. The absolute disadvantage in numbers forced Belegar to abandon the idea of driving the rats out and instead contract his defensive lines.

Before long, that small clan retreated, the Warlord dragging its weapon behind it, taking the lead in fleeing in a panic.

"Tail-cutter, you, you go!"

Queek points out another batch of rats nonchalantly; it is brave but not reckless.

"Are the, the blocking troops in position?" it asks its adjutant immediately after.

"Yes, yes!"

Queek calculates in its heart: as long as the progress of the war is controlled, when those two outgoing Dwarf units return exhausted from the harassment, what will await them will be the heads of their kin piled into a trophy mound by those left behind, and the sharpened tools of the rat-folk.

If everything develops according to plan, the Angrund Clan, this opponent that has entangled them for thousands of years, will be completely wiped out. Waiting in place always makes the rat irritable; Queek paces back and forth, its tail kicking up dust from the ground.

The smell of blood and the call of victory make its head spin; it thinks about how it will torture that old rival, thinks about how it will step onto the peak of its rat life, and even thinks about the legendary era of the rat-folk.

"Buzz, buzz, buzz!" Suddenly, a strange sound never heard before appears.

A few minutes ago, the Dwarfs in the air saw the large group of rats on the hillside. Sinuoli took out his telescope, his gaze drawn by a large mass of red. After quickly rotating the focus, he saw clearly that group of Stormvermin wearing scarlet armor.

"It really is Clan Mors, then."

"

The transmigrator searches for that "haunting" figure; the high-quality telescope from Jiliuguan does not disappoint him. Seeing the highly recognizable trophy rack in the rat swarm, Sinuoli, in his excitement, even pinches a dent into the metal lens barrel.

As for that set of equipment, from a distance, it might look like a Chaos Warrior under the Lord of Skulls. But whether Khorne would favor a cowardly rat, and whether the Skaven are qualified to offer faith to a god other than the Great Horned Rat, is a matter for another time; at this moment and scene, it only represents one fellow—

"Queek Headtaker!"

Sinuoli snaps his telescope shut with a "Click!", spitting out the name that will futurely make Orcs respect, Goblins fear, and Dwarfs hate to the bone.

"Your Majesty, what shall we do next?" Altman pokes his head out from the cockpit. The helicopters hover in mid-air, waiting for the Lord's orders.

"Like this!" Sinuoli's eyes are filled with killing intent.

"Everyone, the divine Grimnir tells me that among the rats invading the fortress is a Great Enemy of the Mountains. Do you dare follow me to slay it!" he roars at the elites in the hanging basket. As for which one specifically, such distinctive equipment is obvious at a glance.

"A Great Enemy of the Mountains? A mere Skaven is worthy of that?"

"Can it be as thick as a single toe of the first Greater Daemon under Nurgle?"

"Back in Kislev, I didn't take half a step back even when facing the Chosen Guard of Asawa-Kuer!"

The Slayer Brotherhood mutters disdainfully. These veterans have seen big scenes; what does it matter if they are elite rats? It is just a matter of whether one axe cuts down three or two.

Queek and its subordinates squint their rat eyes, searching for the source of the sound. The Skaven have long operated in dim tunnels, and the glaring light on the surface greatly weakens their vision.

When the helicopter formation is less than five hundred meters from Queek, the Stormvermin finally lock onto the target in the air. They form a dense formation centered on the Warlord, struggling to overcome the unease in their hearts as they tilt their Halberds upward to aim at the incoming enemy.

"That, what is that?"

"Beard-things?"

"Helicopter, the, the beard-things further south have, have this thing!"

Queek's short rat life has not yet been to the Old World; in its cognition, there are only the vast numbers of Greenskins and the pestering Dwarfs around Eight Peaks. Because fuel could not be replenished along the way, neither Belegar nor Domuga had equipped helicopters before.

"Shut! Shut!"

Although it has never seen one, the Headtaker certainly knows the visitor is not here to deliver meat to it. It makes the most direct reaction. What comes from behind is not the sound of gunfire, but a flurry of hasty reloading.

Slings cannot reach that far, and Warpstone weapons require preparation. The users are most aware of the instability of Skaven technology; when not in a combat state, those unlucky shooters try to keep the things in their hands as far away from themselves as possible.

"Da-da-da!"

The machine guns mounted on the helicopters sound first, and dense bullets pour down from above. Some Stormvermin lift their Shields to offer slight resistance; they are all clad in heavy armor and have a certain degree of defensive capability. However, for the Dwarfs in the hanging baskets, this is already enough. The crew members suppress the rats while lowering their altitude.

"In the name of the Ancestor Gods, the grudge of Clan Mors shall be settled today!"

After using the Grimnir ritual to enhance the strength of himself and his subordinates, Sinuoli steps out of the hanging basket and takes the lead in jumping down.

"Duang!"

"Sizzle!"

Sinuoli activates Avatar of the Gods, transforming into Stone Form. At the moment of landing, he stomps down with a Thunder Strike; the massive impact force combined with the effect of the skill clears a ten-meter radius centered on him.

"Queek, lend me your head!"

The Colossus roars at the sky and throws the Warhammer in his palm.