The young officer straightened. "Yes, sir. Forty-five divisions are being mobilized in the southern hemisphere. The plan is to establish a three-sided front around Velmorian, forming three large battle groups. The aim is to gradually compress the enemy's occupied territory, pushing them toward the coast where our navy will cut off their escape. Once contained, we will eliminate them."
As he spoke, he activated the projector. The room dimmed, and a massive tactical map flickered into view. Three red arrows pointed inward, converging on Velmorian. "The plan," the officer continued, "is to complete the battle line within two weeks. After that, we will begin the offensive in phases."
Kayvaan's expression darkened. "No," he said flatly. "Two weeks is too long."
The staff officer hesitated. "Sir—"
"The front must be established in one week," Kayvaan cut in. He stepped forward, taking the pointer from the officer's hands. With a swift motion, he circled the map. "And your battle lines are too narrow," he continued. "You're treating this like a containment operation. That's a mistake." He tapped the map sharply. "We expand the war zone. Velmorian, Connovar, Connemora, Minotarn. All four states are now classified as active battlefields."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"We abandon Connovar, Connemora, and Minotarn." Kayvaan's tone brooked no argument. "The government will issue immediate evacuation orders. Civilians are to be moved now, no delays. At the same time, all planetary surveillance assets are to be directed toward the war zone—full orbital reconnaissance, round-the-clock monitoring. We don't hold back. Not one corner of that territory goes unwatched."
"But, sir," the staff officer hesitated, "expanding the war zone will—"
Kayvaan's eyes flashed dangerously. "You're thinking about economics, aren't you?"
The officer stiffened.
"You're worried about resource consumption," Kayvaan continued. "Worried about supply chains, about how this will affect our long-term development plans. Am I right?"
A few of the officials shifted uncomfortably.
Kayvaan let out a slow, bitter chuckle. "The greenskins are at my door," he said, voice laced with quiet fury. "And you're talking about long-term development?"
Silence.
Kayvaan turned back to the staff officer. "And even if we did stick to your plan, do you really think forty-five divisions will be enough?"
The officer hesitated. "Sir, this was a unanimous decision by—"
"Of course it was," Kayvaan muttered. "You think the enemy is contained, so you assume this force is sufficient. Maybe even excessive." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You're wrong."
The staff officer bristled. "Sir, our preparations have already consumed a significant portion of war reserves. Increasing mobilization could severely impact future operations."
Kayvaan's patience snapped. "Future operations?!" He let out a harsh laugh. "What future operations?! If we fail here, there is no future! Reach will burn!"
Silence fell over the room.
Kayvaan inhaled sharply, then straightened. "I'm overriding Central Command's mobilization plan," he declared.
Several officials stiffened.
"Full planetary mobilization. All one hundred divisions prepare for war—including reserve forces and militia. Every soldier, every able-bodied fighter. From this moment, the entire Ferrum Sector is in a state of red alert."
A murmur of shock ran through the room.
One of the older officials spoke up hesitantly. "Sir, this is an unprecedented escalation—"
Kayvaan turned his cold gaze on him. "So is the enemy."
The man flinched.
Kayvaan exhaled sharply. "Listen well. If we were dealing with a battle-hardened force—one with experienced commanders, seasoned officers, and hardened political commissars—then yes, forty-five divisions might be enough." He let that hang for a moment. "But that's not the force we have," he said, voice even. "The soldiers of Reach have never fought a real war. Their only experience with weapons is target practice. Maybe some have fired tear gas during riot control. But most? They've never killed. Never faced a real enemy." He looked around the room, making sure his words hit home. "And now," he continued, "their first war is against Orks."
No one spoke.
Kayvaan's expression hardened. "This isn't just an enemy," he said coldly. "This is war incarnate." His eyes swept across the officials. "You cannot treat this like a conventional battle. Orks do not follow our logic. They do not retreat when they are outnumbered. They do not surrender when they are surrounded. They grow in war. They thrive in war. The longer they fight, the stronger they become." He slammed the pointer against the map. "And that is why I am ordering full mobilization."
No one dared to argue.
Kayvaan exhaled, his voice dropping into something quieter—but no less firm. "If we hesitate, we lose Reach," he said simply. "And I will not let that happen."
The room was silent. Then, slowly, the staff officer straightened. He brought his heels together and snapped a crisp salute. "Understood, sir," he said. The others followed.
Kayvaan nodded, then turned back to the map. The greatest unknown in this war was the number of Orks. It was a factor that could not be predicted with any certainty. Unlike humans, Orks did not rely on traditional means of reproduction—what they did wasn't even reproduction in the conventional sense. It was manufacturing. The greenskins had been in the galaxy for an uncountable number of years. Some scholars even speculated that Orks had existed before humanity itself—though any who dared to voice such claims publicly often found themselves burned at the stake for heresy.
Despite their ancient presence, Orks had never truly built a civilization in the way other species did. There had never been an Ork empire, never a unified Ork government. Thanks be to the Emperor, there had never been a warboss who managed to unite all of greenskin-kind under a single banner. And yet, despite their anarchic nature, despite their endless infighting, the Orks thrived in the cold cruelty of the void. For one reason. Their terrifying reproductive capacity. No, to even call it reproduction was incorrect. Orks were not born. They were grown.
Unlike any other known species, Orks were a hybrid organism, composed of both animal and fungal genetic structures. They functioned like living, breathing warriors, wielding massive weapons and crude machinery with brute force—but at the same time, they spread like a plague. An Ork didn't need to mate to reproduce. It only needed to exist.
Whenever an Ork moved, whenever it scratched its head or shed its skin, spores were released into the air—tiny, invisible seeds that took root in the soil. Within weeks, those spores could grow into new Orks, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to expand the war. If left unchecked, a single Ork infestation could spiral into a planetary apocalypse. Kayvaan clenched his fists, forcing himself to suppress a shudder at the thought. "Effective extermination is the only option," he said grimly. His voice was sharp, decisive. "Order immediate mass production of flamethrowers. Prioritize the development of lean-fuel incendiary bombs. Every combat unit must be equipped with fire-based weaponry. After every engagement, the corpses of the greenskins must be burned completely. The battlefield itself must be cleansed—no spores, no remains. And after every large-scale operation, I want carpet-bombing runs conducted with incendiary payloads."
"Yes, my lord!"
Kayvaan nodded in satisfaction. "Furthermore," he continued, "the entire Ferrum Sector is now under full military control. We are past the point of half-measures. No more delays. No more complacency. War is here, and if we are not prepared, it will consume us."