Since even the Chapter Master of the Lamenters felt a "bad premonition," it was absolutely more than just a joke. In the Warhammer universe, a world where idealistic, psychic forces truly exist, an Astartes' intuition is often far more accurate than the most precise auspex.
The Helldivers' command center quickly sprang into action. Various potential threats were taken into consideration: the infiltration of Chaos forces, an Ork Waaagh!, insidious Genestealer Cults, and, of course, the Drukhari—whose name was highlighted in bold red at the very top of the list.
Although not long ago, the Helldivers had used some "special means"—deploying a Slaaneshi demon as a biochemical weapon to temporarily drive away those perverted space elves—everyone knew that the Drukhari were a bunch of lunatics who would risk their very lives for a thrill or a taste of agony.
No one could guarantee that those psychos wouldn't make a comeback out of sheer vengeance, or simply to seek a greater high.
To counter a potential raid, the northern industrial zone, which had previously been ruthlessly plundered by the Drukhari, was designated a high-priority defensive target.
The Joker had stationed a massive force here on high alert.
To deal with the high mobility of the Drukhari's Raider gunships and jetbikes, they specifically deployed a substantial number of paratrooper players equipped with heavy weaponry and grav-chutes.
Above the industrial zone, the air was thick with smoke and dust.
On a giant crane beam hundreds of meters above the ground, several Mortifactor paratroopers wearing long coats and bulky grav-chutes crouched on the edge like iron gargoyles, dangling their legs in utter boredom.
The cold wind howled, but it did not dampen the players' enthusiasm for shooting the breeze.
"Hey, guys," a player with the ID Peppino Spaghetti stood up, pointing toward a spired building looming in the distant smog. "Do you think I can jump straight from here to that spire at seven o'clock? I just calculated the distance and wind speed. As long as I control it right, I'd only need to open my grav-chute for three seconds to glide all the way over."
Another player crouching nearby rolled his eyes, his voice sounding muffled beneath his heavily scratched gas mask: "You'd better not drain your energy reserves before the fight even starts.
Fuel for this crappy backpack is precious enough as it is. If the fighting actually starts later and you drop out mid-battle, telling us you ran out of energy, the boys are going to have a few choice words about your mother."
"Exactly. And if you miss the jump and splat into meat paste, we'd have to fly over to get you, which wastes our fuel too," another player chimed in.
"Sigh, fine then," Peppino sighed, reluctantly abandoning his highly tempting parkour idea and crouching back down. "On a serious note, do you guys think the Dark Elves will actually show up?"
"Who knows? After all, the one we used last time was just a low-tier Slaaneshi demon. As disgusting as it was, it might not scare those perverts away forever," the previous player replied, checking the lasgun in his hands. "But whether they come or not, I've come prepared for the Drukhari."
"Prepared? You mean carrying extra melta bombs?"
"Not just that," the man said mysteriously, pulling a cylindrical object from his tactical waist pouch and waving it in front of everyone. "Guess what this is? A flashbang!"
The surrounding players leaned in to look, a bit puzzled. "Uh... is there some special lore behind this? Is it effective against Dark Elves?"
"And that's where you lack knowledge of the setting," the player explained smugly. "The Aeldari—whether they're Craftworld or Drukhari—have a physiological trait: their senses are incredibly sharp, far sharper than us humans. They can hear fainter sounds, see a wider spectrum of light, and feel microscopic tactile sensations."
He paused, tossing the flashbang in his hand. "That being the case, if they really come, maybe these sensory-targeted flashbangs will have a miraculous effect on them? To us, it's just blinding, but to those pointy-ears whose sensory sensitivity is several times ours, wouldn't it be a critical hit on the level of a brain overload?"
"Holy crap...that's genius"
The surrounding players froze for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
"That actually makes sense!"
"They gonna need some Sea Salt after this fight hehe..."
Though no one dared to get their hopes up too high—after all, who knew the exact internal physiology of a Drukhari—the theory at least sounded much more plausible and tactically sound than just throwing standard frag grenades.
"Alright, I'm going to exchange for a few to bring along too," Peppino said, immediately opening his store interface. "If we can actually flash those Dark Elves blind, this round is a guaranteed win."
Just as this group of paratrooper players was still debating the feasibility of the flashbang tactic, the casual banter in the comms channel was abruptly cut off by a piercing alarm.
"Attention all airborne units! Attention all airborne units!"
The voice from command was urgent and stern: "Drukhari presence confirmed! Coordinates have been marked on your tactical visors. High command orders you to proceed immediately to reinforce. You must locate the enemy's exact position and find a way to stall them! Repeat, your primary objective is delaying actions and intelligence reconnaissance, while protecting evacuating civilians as much as possible!"
"They're actually here? Talk about a jinx!"
Despite complaining, the players did not hesitate. With the roar of mechanical grav-chutes activating, several figures leapt down from the towering iron beam.
They adjusted their postures mid-air, trailing blue exhaust flames as they dove toward the smog-filled streets below.
Soon, utilizing their high-altitude vision advantage, they spotted their targets near an abandoned cargo transit station.
"Spotted them! Over there!"
Through the zoom function of their tactical visors, the players clearly saw a five-man Drukhari squad. These xenos wore light armor covered in spikes and blades, moving as fast as phantoms. In front of them, a squad of Planetary Defence Force (PDF) soldiers covering the retreat looked like puppets moving in slow motion.
Shards fired from splinter rifles drew lethal trajectories through the air, every flash accompanied by a PDF soldier collapsing in agony. It wasn't a war; it was a one-sided slaughter.
"Don't rush down yet!" the leading paratrooper player hissed in the squad channel, suppressing his teammates' urge to open fire immediately. "Maintain altitude and hover to observe! There are only five of them, but they're Drukhari—melee meat grinders. We only have a few guns; going down now is just feeding them kills."
While the players didn't fear death, they didn't want to throw their lives away pointlessly. Controlling their grav-chutes, they hovered hundreds of meters up in the sky, using the industrial smog as cover to carefully monitor the movements below, waiting for the optimal moment to strike.
However, they severely underestimated the sensory capabilities of the Drukhari.
To these xenos with pathologically sharp senses, the thermal signatures and noise generated by the grav-chutes hundreds of meters up were as conspicuous as beating drums and gongs in the dead of night.
On the ground, a Drukhari warrior who was elegantly slitting a PDF soldier's throat with a blade suddenly paused. He tilted his head slightly, and the eyes hidden beneath his helmet swept toward a corner of the sky through his visor with a mocking gaze.
"A few annoying flies," his voice, filtered through his helmet, sounded sharp and cold. "Watching us from up there... truly ill-mannered mon-keigh."
The other Drukhari let out low, sneering chuckles. Without pausing their hands, they continued to dismember the still-screaming defense force soldiers in an excruciatingly brutal manner, as if the slaughter were merely background music.
"I'll go lure them down," the Drukhari who spoke first flicked the blood off his blade, his tone brimming with a thirst for the hunt. "Flying around up in the sky is an eyesore. I'm going to skin them and turn them into kites."
With that, the Drukhari blurred and broke away from the squad, using the ruins as cover to dart off in another direction away from the battlefield—clearly intending to use his movement to bait the "flies" in the sky.
The remaining four Drukhari looked toward the squad leader standing in the center.
"This violates the Archon's orders," one squad member muttered softly. "He commanded us to move together and not stray alone."
The Drukhari, who was an Incubi squad leader, looked at the departing figure and let out a cold laugh beneath his mask: "Let him go. An impatient fool like that will either bring us some new amusement or die out there and become someone else's amusement. Either way, it is no loss to us."
"Back to work," the leader turned around, stepping on and crushing the skull of the PDF soldier beneath his boot, issuing a ruthless command.