A full Space Marine combat company typically consists of ten squads, each a precision instrument of war. Depending on the mission, these squads are tailored for tactical flexibility, heavy support, or close-quarters assault.
But for the conquest of Wakanda, Olsen had brought more than just infantry. Looming over the black-armored battle-brothers were two hulking Castraferrum-pattern Dreadnoughts—ancient sarcophagi of walking death—and a Librarian, his hood crackling with the blue lightning of the warp.
As the Border Tribe closed in, chanting their war cries and raising their shimmering energy barriers, Olsen issued the first and final command of the engagement.
"Tactical squads: advance and suppress. Direct fire only."
The silence of the plains was shattered by the rhythmic, thunderous roar of bolters. Unlike the primitive firearms of the outside world, these were .75 caliber rocket-propelled projectiles. They hissed through the air like miniature missiles, slamming into the shimmering Vibranium-weave shields with the force of sledgehammers.
The kinetic energy was immense. While the Vibranium cloth absorbed much of the impact, the continuous torrent of explosive rounds began to buckle the line.
Olsen watched the engagement with a cold, analytical detachment. He was silent for a few seconds, genuinely struck by the absurdity of the scene. Despite possessing a metal that was a literal miracle of physics, the Wakandans applied it with the tactical sophistication of a bronze-age militia. They moved in tight, phalanx-like "shells," relying on their shields to close the distance for spear-thrusts.
"They play at war like children," Olsen muttered. Even a hive-gang on a backwater world understood the necessity of cover and flanking. To stand in the open against a Space Marine company was not bravery—it was a logistical error.
"Hector. Griffith. Break them."
The two Dreadnoughts stepped forward, their massive hydraulic limbs churning the earth. The warriors, peering through their blue energy barriers, felt a primal terror take root. These were not tanks; they were mechanical gods of wrath, exuding a heart-pounding pressure that made the air feel heavy.
Wakabi, leader of the Border Tribe, watched in horror as the mechanical monsters charged. The energy shields—their proudest defense—shattered like glass.
The Dreadnoughts didn't even use their weapons; they simply walked through the line. The sheer brute force sent warriors spinning into the air like discarded dolls, their Vibranium armor reaching its kinetic saturation point and failing. A shield can absorb a bullet, but it cannot absorb the momentum of a ten-ton warmachine at full tilt.
"Push through the gap!" Olsen roared, leading his company into the breach like a obsidian blade.
"Bast, preserve us..." Wakabi whispered, his hands trembling. "What are these things?"
In desperation, he raised his horn to his lips and blew a long, low note that echoed across the savanna.
The ground groaned. From the tall grass, the Rhino Legion emerged—massive beasts clad in heavy Vibranium plating, charging with enough mass to overturn a main battle tank.
Olsen stopped, watching the charge. He felt a rare pang of pity—not for the men, but for the wasted effort. "I should have known better than to expect a challenge."
In the Imperium, cavalry units rode genetically-modified war-steeds or cybernetic mounts capable of outpacing a landslide. These were just... animals. Ordinary rhinos with metal strapped to their hides.
"Target the weak points," Olsen commanded.
The Dark Angels didn't even break stride. Their fire was surgical. Bolter rounds found the gaps in the rhino armor—the eyes, the underbellies, the joints. The beasts didn't just fall; they were detonated into a red mist by the high-explosive shells.
Wakabi stood alone, his legendary legion decimated in minutes. The towering figure of Olsen loomed over him, a shadow that felt as heavy as a mountain.
Driven by a final, flickering spark of warrior's pride, Wakabi lunged with his spear. He thrust the Vibranium tip at Olsen's chest with every ounce of his strength.
Olsen caught the shaft in mid-air.
With a simple, terrifying flick of his wrist, Olsen snapped the spear from Wakabi's hand. In the next motion, he drove the broken Vibranium point through the chieftain's chest, pinning him to the scorched earth.
Wakabi coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. He looked up at the featureless skull-visor of the giant. "Are you... even human?"
Olsen didn't answer. He looked at the Vibranium spearhead still clutched in his hand. It was light, incredibly sharp, and resonant. "A fine material," he noted. "It will serve the Crusade well."
He stepped over the dying man, ignoring the routing survivors. "Tactical squads Three, Four, and Five: secure the mining deposits. Do not allow the xenos-tech to be sabotaged."
"Squads Six through Eight: find the 'Heart-Shaped Herb' cultivars. Burn the rest once the samples are secured."
"Second Company: locate the royal family. Bring the girl, Shuri, to me alive. The rest are secondary."
As the Astartes moved into the city, the rout became a massacre of pride. The Wakandans didn't run from soldiers; they ran from "Gods of Death" who moved with the chilling, synchronized precision of a clock. Every shot was a kill. Every movement was optimized.
To the survivors, it was clear: they weren't being conquered. They were being harvested.