Silence spread across the foul, rot-reeking deck, broken only by the irritating, endless buzzing of the Destroyer Hive.
No one dared to step forward and guarantee an answer at a time like this. They knew all too well that if their explanation failed to satisfy the First Captain, or if the proposed solution proved useless once again, their own fates would be no better than that of the mortals who had just been reduced to skeletons.
Seeing the green light in Typhus's eyes grow increasingly grim, and hearing his knuckles pop as his grip tightened on his scythe, the imminent killing intent rendered the heavy air suffocating.
If no one spoke up soon, everyone would die.
Finally, the oldest-looking sorcerer gathered his courage and took a hesitant step forward.
"Lord... Lord Typhus," his voice was dry and raspy with fear, "In theory, such a large-scale separation of soul and flesh that maintains such a intense level of self-awareness is indeed impossible. However... I once read a conjecture in a tattered, heretical ancient text that might—just might—explain our current situation."
Typhus paused his movements, fixing his ice-cold gaze upon him.
"Speak."
The sorcerer swallowed hard and said tremulously, "According to that ancient text, since all things have a projection within the Warp—just as a boltgun or the very ship beneath our feet possesses its own machine spirit—then... a planet that has birthed countess lives might itself possess its own will, or rather, a World Soul."
Typhus tilted his head slightly, seemingly lost in thought. It sounded somewhat similar to the theories of those pointed-eared Aeldari, but within the vision of Chaos, the concept that all things have spirits was not unacceptable.
Seeing that Typhus did not fly into a rage immediately, the sorcerer hastily added, "My Lord, this... this is merely a view I read from that ancient book. After all, the author of that book was a madman, so I cannot guarantee—"
"Continue," Typhus interrupted his pointless deflections. "Since it was a book memorable enough for you to recall, there must be more to it than just that, right?"
"Yes, of course," the sorcerer wiped away the pus leaking into his eyes and continued, "That ancient text also mentioned that a powerful World Soul is not merely a simple aggregation of souls. It can, to a certain degree, mobilize the forces of nature, and even... consciously guide, alter, or manipulate the sentient life born upon it. This manipulation is multifaceted, affecting both body and soul."
Typhus remained silent for a moment, digesting the information.
If that was the case, it all made sense. Why were these mortals so utterly fearless of death? Why were their souls impossible to corrupt? Why could they maintain clarity of mind even when their physical bodies underwent mutations?
Perhaps their souls did not belong to them at all, but were instead extensions of a much grander entity's will. They were like countless remote-controlled puppets deployed by that planet. As long as the source remained intact, simply altering the puppets' flesh could never sever that invisible string.
"Are you suggesting that the unique state of these mortals' souls and flesh stems from the peculiar World Soul of their homeworld operating behind the scenes?"
Typhus spoke slowly, a trace of excitement surprisingly creeping into his tone. "A very intriguing conjecture... If that's the case, giving them the Grandfather's blessings by simply capturing individuals is useless. I must first thoroughly corrupt their homeworld's so-called 'World Soul,' drag it into the Warp, and make it a part of Nurgle's Garden?"
The sorcerer was startled and frantically waved his hands. "My Lord, I was merely guessing that their homeworld might be the cause of their uniqueness! I didn't mean you must—"
He dared not endorse such a crazy plan. Dragging a planet with its own self-awareness into the Warp? The sheer scale and difficulty of such an undertaking were simply unimaginable.
However, Typhus was clearly no longer listening.
For the Death Guard, there was no mission higher than spreading plague and corrupting worlds. If this group of Helldivers was truly so unique, then the homeworld that birthed them was undeniably a perfect sacrifice worth offering to the Grandfather.
Once the source was corrupted, these stubborn fools would naturally become the Grandfather's most loyal warriors.
Typhus paced back and forth, contemplating for a moment, before suddenly spinning around. His voice echoed across the entire fleet through the vox channel: "Pass down the order. Death Guard, continue the assault. Do not waste time attempting to capture live ones anymore. It's a waste of time. Crush those mortals! And while we're at it, I want to see where their absolute limits lie."
---
Meanwhile, in the deepest depths of the Imperial Cruiser:
The remaining Helldivers had retreated step by step, ultimately pushed into the heart of the ship—the massive engine room. The heavy blast doors had been welded shut and piled high with heavy machinery to serve as a makeshift barricade. Yet, the ear-grating sound of cutting metal and dull battering from outside were constant reminders that Death was right on the other side.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of engine oil, sweat, and evaporated combat drugs.
"Guys, there's no way back now."
The Regiment Commander wiped the blood and grime from his face. There had originally been several brigade and division commanders above him, but unfortunately, they were all dead, leaving him as the highest-ranking officer present.
He glanced back at the massive plasma reactor emitting a faint blue glow behind them. "Ahead of us are those green tin cans, and behind us is a dead end. Our mission progress bar is just about maxed out anyway. It's time to bring out our last resort."
He pointed to several key valves on the reactor. "All we need to do next is overload the core. This ship, along with those Death Guard currently aboard, will all go sky-high right alongside us. What do you say we all go back to the spawn pool and count down the metaphorical respawn timer together?"
"Agreed! Blow 'em to hell!"
"Rather than being turned into one of those disgusting flesh coats, I'd rather go out with a bang!"
Many players chimed in, tightly clutching the suicide grenades in their hands. For the Fourth Apocalypse, self-detonation was never a tough decision—in fact, it was kind of exciting.
"Wait! Don't be in such a rush to blow it up!"
Just then, a player squeezed out from the crowd. Looking at the distribution of red dots on his tactical display, he suggested, "Look at the auspex. These stinky tin cans are way too arrogant. They think they've got us pinned down, so almost all of them are crammed into that corridor right outside the door, preparing to breach. At this distance, we're literally face-to-face!"
Waving his arms, the player analyzed enthusiastically, "Guys, we still have plenty of combat drugs left, right? At this range, after injecting the meds, our burst movement speed can increase threefold—we can practically leap right into their faces in one jump!"
"You mean—" The commander froze for a moment.
"A counter-charge!" The player licked his dry lips. "Blowing up the ship directly is satisfying, but it only nets us the base score. If we form a suicide assault squad right now, juice ourselves up, and charge out the instant they break through the door to hit them with a counter-attack, that's point-blank damage! If we get lucky and take down a few Plague Marines or even push back a bit, won't we be drowning in Merit Points?"
"Besides," another player realized, chiming in, "If we can stall them and buy time for the dudes behind us, they can crank the reactor's overload output to the absolute maximum!"
This proposal instantly ignited the enthusiasm of every player present. A simple suicide wasn't all that fun; dealing as much destruction as possible before dying was the true romance of gaming.
"Makes sense! High risk, high reward!"
"Sounds like a plan! We're dead either way, so we might as well charge out and hand them a knuckle sammich twice before we go!"
The commander thought it over briefly, then slapped his thigh hard. "Alright! Let's do it! If we succeed, we can hold out a bit longer and farm more cash; if we fail, the reactor countdown is already set anyway. At worst, we all call it GG together in a flash of nuclear fire!"
Orders were issued swiftly.
"Pull out all your combat drugs! Don't save them—pump yourselves completely full!"
"The rest of you, guard the reactor! The moment we're wiped out, detonate it immediately!"
Even in a hopeless situation, the execution capacity displayed by this group of players was staggering.
The best-equipped players quickly assembled behind the blast door. Holding nothing back, they stabbed syringes filled with bizarrely colored stimulants and frenzy drugs directly through their carapace armor and into their spinal columns.
As the liquid chemicals surged in, their pupils constricted rapidly, their muscles bulged as if inflated, dark blue veins popped across their skin, and the thumping of their hearts echoed in their ears like war drums.