For the Imperium, Tzeentchian methods were indeed difficult to handle. But what did the Imperium's struggles have to do with me, the Tyranids?
Sarah might not be great at handling human emotions—she was often slow to grasp their subtle schemes—but her mind was a living supercomputer. Any minute deviation in data could not escape her calculations. More importantly, the Tyranids possessed the Shadow in the Warp. It was a barrier formed by the Hive Mind within the Immaterium. Most psychic probes, Chaos whispers, and Tzeentchian lures were weakened or outright severed before the Swarm.
Under Sarah's guidance, the Genestealers quietly reverted every modification. Meanwhile, the Tzeentch followers remained blissfully unaware, believing their plans were proceeding smoothly.
Targeting the grassroots was not enough. The Tzeentch cultists turned their gaze toward higher targets: the senior leadership of the various ships. Corrupting a captain or controlling a weapons master would be far more effective than tampering with schematics. They gathered information on these high-ranking officials through various channels.
But they soon discovered an embarrassing fact.
The captain of the Gothic-class cruiser was a Genestealer. The weapons system supervisor was a Genestealer. The head of the engine room was a Genestealer. The intelligence officer was a Genestealer, the communications head was a Genestealer, and the Navigator wasn't even pretending anymore—there wasn't one. Though, they assumed some role like a Cerebrath must be filling the position.
The entire core team, from top to bottom, consisted of Genestealers.
The Tzeentch followers looked at the list in their hands and fell silent. Someone couldn't help but complain: "Are we infiltrating an Imperial fleet or a Tyranid Hive?"
Another person said gloomily: "Maybe... we should go report this to the Inquisition?"
"Report what?"
"Report that the captains under the Governor are Genestealers."
"..." A heavy silence fell over the group.
You are a Chaos worshiper, and you want to go to the Inquisition to file a report? Are you worried you won't die fast enough? The man felt a chill from the stares of his comrades and shut his mouth sheepishly. With a collective sigh, they had to keep looking for a way.
Finally, they set their sights on one person: the General Supervisor of Maintenance Personnel Allocation. This individual coordinated the dispatch of all repair units and held the schedule for the entire maintenance plan. Corrupting him would allow them to influence the fleet's preparation at a macro level—delaying critical repairs or causing errors in vital procedures to slow down the entire progress.
Furthermore, intelligence gathered at the cost of lives showed that this man was NOT a Genestealer!
Upon receiving the news, the Tzeentch followers moved immediately. They infiltrated through various routes, overcoming numerous obstacles over three full days. Finally, they managed to deliver a document containing a corruption trap into the supervisor's office.
The document held a carefully designed psychic snare. Anyone who opened it would be lured by voices hidden behind the text as they read. Even those with the firmest will would step-by-step fall into the embrace of Chaos.
Having completed the task, they waited. But soon, their anticipation turned to disappointment. They felt no signal indicating the birth of a new comrade. The document seemed to have vanished into the sea without a ripple.
"What's going on?" the Tzeentch sorcerer in charge of the operation frowned. "Was the document discovered? Or is the supervisor's will too strong? Should we send someone to check?"
"Too risky. If we're caught..."
"But if we don't look, how will we know where the problem is?"
After much debate, they decided to take the risk. Dozens of them moved in waves, and most died at the hands of the guarding Genestealers. Finally, a follower skilled in stealth managed to slip into the supervisor's office area under the cover of night. He reached the office and peeked through the crack in the door.
He saw a massive, gray face.
It was an Ogryn. Over two point eight meters tall, with muscles bulging out of an extra-large work uniform that still looked tight enough to burst. He sat on a clearly reinforced chair, one hand clutching the document while the other rubbed his chin, looking deep in thought. The document was crumpled and bore several suspicious wet spots—likely drool.
The Ogryn stared at the document for a while, let out a yawn, balled the paper up, and casually tossed it into the nearby trash can. Then he lowered his head and resumed looking at a picture book. The cover depicted several colorful small animals, with the title "Marbo's Wondrous Adventure" written on it.
The Ogryn's eyes were wide as he stared at the pictures, muttering under his breath: "Dis is a Basilisk, dis is a Man-Eater plant, and dis... dis is..." He scratched his head and suddenly gave an honest grin. "Dobby says dis is a toad!"
The stealthy Tzeentch follower was utterly dumbfounded. He retreated to the hideout trembling and told the others everything he had seen. The room stayed silent for ten seconds before someone spoke:
"Damn it, why is the supervisor an Ogryn?!"
One person said with resentment, "Then our carefully prepared corruption document..."
"Probably thrown away as scrap paper."
"..."
"What about the Warp whispers?"
"Can an Ogryn even hear Warp whispers? Their brain structures are so smooth you could use them as a slide. The demons of the Warp don't even bother with them."
"So we spent a whole week just to let an Ogryn play a game of wastepaper basketball?"
No one answered. Only silence remained, punctuated by several deep, desperate sighs.
Fifty days. That was the time originally allotted in Raynor's plan to prepare the expedition fleet. Repairing the Gothic-class cruiser, preparing escort ships, training crews, and allocating supplies—every task required time, labor, and precise coordination.
But now, progress was a full third faster than expected. In just one month, they were nearly finished. Raynor stood on the observation deck of the spaceport, looking at the nearly completed giant ship with a smile.
"I really have them to thank," he said softly.
Beside him, Isod nodded. She knew who Raynor was talking about: those Tzeentch followers. Their hard work in "helping by doing harm" had ultimately bolstered Raynor's progress. Combined with the Genestealers' inherently efficient work style, the repair speed was naturally astounding.
"If they knew the truth," Sarah said, her voice carrying a rare hint of mockery, "they would probably go insane with rage."
Raynor gave a faint smile and turned his gaze toward the stars, in the direction where Karl-2 was located.
"By the way, how is Luna doing over there?"